aturn, with an enormous ring, was the centre of gravity of a face which
composed itself afresh every moment in relation to the glass, while
his thrusting red nose and swollen sarcastic lips endeavoured by their
grimaces to rise to the level of the steady flame of wit that sparkled
in the polished disk, and saw itself preferred to the most ravishing
eyes in the world by the smart, depraved young women whom it set
dreaming of artificial charms and a refinement of sensual bliss; and
then, behind him, M. de Palancy, who with his huge carp's head and
goggling eyes moved slowly up and down the stream of festive gatherings,
unlocking his great mandibles at every moment as though in search of
his orientation, had the air of carrying about upon his person only an
accidental and perhaps purely symbolical fragment of the glass wall of
his aquarium, a part intended to suggest the whole which recalled to
Swann, a fervent admirer of Giotto's Vices and Virtues at Padua, that
Injustice by whose side a leafy bough evokes the idea of the forests
that enshroud his secret lair.

Swann had gone forward into the room, under pressure from Mme. de
Saint-Euverte and in order to listen to an aria from _Orfeo_ which was
being rendered on the flute, and had taken up a position in a corner
from which, unfortunately, his horizon was bounded by two ladies of
'uncertain' age, seated side by side, the Marquise de Cambremer and the
Vicomtesse de Franquetot, who, because they were cousins, used to spend
their time at parties in wandering through the rooms, each clutching her
bag and followed by her daughter, hunting for one another like people at
a railway station, and could never be at rest until they had reserved,
by marking them with their fans or handkerchiefs, two adjacent chairs;
Mme. de Cambremer, since she knew scarcely anyone, being all the more
glad of a companion, while Mme. de Franquetot, who, on the contrary,
was extremely popular, thought it effective and original to shew all
her fine friends that she preferred to their company that of an obscure
country cousin with whom she had childish memories in common. Filled
with ironical melancholy, Swann watched them as they listened to the
pianoforte inter, mezzo (Liszt's 'Saint Francis preaching to the birds')
which came after the flute, and followed the virtuoso in his dizzy
flight; Mme. de Franquetot anxiously, her eyes starting from her head,
as though the keys over which his fingers skipped wit