, in the new surroundings in which it now appeared, that word
'marble,' which he had lost the power to distinguish, so often had it
passed, in print, beneath his eyes, had suddenly become visible once
again, and had at once brought back to his mind the story which Odette
had told him, long ago, of a visit which she had paid to the Salon at
the Palais d'Industrie with Mme. Verdurin, who had said to her, "Take
care, now! I know how to melt you, all right. You're not made of
marble." Odette had assured him that it was only a joke, and he had
not attached any importance to it at the time. But he had had more
confidence in her then than he had now. And the anonymous letter
referred explicitly to relations of that sort. Without daring to lift
his eyes to the newspaper, he opened it, turned the page so as not to
see again the words, _Filles de Marbre_, and began to read mechanically
the news from the provinces. There had been a storm in the Channel,
and damage was reported from Dieppe, Cabourg, Beuzeval.... Suddenly he
recoiled again in horror.

The name of Beuzeval had suggested to him that of another place in the
same district, Beuzeville, which carried also, bound to it by a hyphen,
a second name, to wit Breaute, which he had often seen on maps, but
without ever previously remarking that it was the same name as that
borne by his friend M. de Breaute, whom the anonymous letter accused of
having been Odette's lover. After all, when it came to M. de Breaute,
there was nothing improbable in the charge; but so far as Mme. Verdurin
was concerned, it was a sheer impossibility. From the fact that Odette
did occasionally tell a lie, it was not fair to conclude that she never,
by any chance, told the truth, and in these bantering conversations
with Mme. Verdurin which she herself had repeated to Swann, he could
recognize those meaningless and dangerous pleasantries which, in their
inexperience of life and ignorance of vice, women often utter (thereby
certifying their own innocence), who--as, for instance, Odette,--would
be the last people in the world to feel any undue affection for one
another. Whereas, on the other hand, the indignation with which she
had scattered the suspicions which she had unintentionally brought into
being, for a moment, in his mind by her story, fitted in with everything
that he knew of the tastes, the temperament of his mistress. But at
that moment, by an inspiration of jealousy, analogous to the inspiration