those who bless or those who curse? It's the
same in every house in Paris now, no one will speak of anything else but
Machard's portrait; you aren't smart, you aren't really cultured, you
aren't up-to-date unless you give an opinion on Machard's portrait."

Swann having replied that he had not seen this portrait, Mme. Cottard
was afraid that she might have hurt his feelings by obliging him to
confess the omission.

"Oh, that's quite all right! At least you have the courage to be quite
frank about it. You don't consider yourself disgraced because you
haven't seen Machard's portrait. I do think that so nice of you. Well
now, I have seen it; opinion is divided, you know, there are some people
who find it rather laboured, like whipped cream, they say; but I think
it's just ideal. Of course, she's not a bit like the blue and yellow
ladies that our friend Biche paints. That's quite clear. But I must tell
you, perfectly frankly (you'll think me dreadfully old-fashioned, but I
always say just what I think), that I don't understand his work. I can
quite see the good points there are in his portrait of my husband; oh,
dear me, yes; and it's certainly less odd than most of what he does,
but even then he had to give the poor man a blue moustache! But Machard!
Just listen to this now, the husband of my friend, I am on my way to see
at this very moment (which has given me the very great pleasure of your
company), has promised her that, if he is elected to the Academy (he
is one of the Doctor's colleagues), he will get Machard to paint her
portrait. So she's got something to look forward to! I have another
friend who insists that she'd rather have Leloir. I'm only a wretched
Philistine, and I've no doubt Leloir has perhaps more knowledge of
painting even than Machard. But I do think that the most important
thing about a portrait, especially when it's going to cost ten thousand
francs, is that it should be like, and a pleasant likeness, if you know
what I mean."

Having exhausted this topic, to which she had been inspired by the
loftiness of her plume, the monogram on her card-case, the little number
inked inside each of her gloves by the cleaner, and the difficulty of
speaking to Swann about the Verdurins, Mme. Cottard, seeing that they
had still a long way to go before they would reach the corner of the
Rue Bonaparte, where the conductor was to set her down, listened to the
promptings of her heart, which counselled other words than