“‘It is the cellar,’ said the gardener, ’but it is dangerous, as it is full of rubbish.  I have a place where you can keep your drink.’  ’And our food?’ said the servant.

“The gardener explained that he often went down to the chateau in his cart and that the cook would have every facility for doing her marketing at Aubevoye.  As for my mother, Mme. de Combray, thinking that the journey up and down hill would be too much for her, would send a donkey which would do for her to ride when we went to the chateau in the afternoon or evening.  On the first floor were two rooms separated by a partition; one for my mother and me, the other for the servant, both lighted only by loop-holes.  It was cold and sinister.

“‘This is a prison!’ cried my mother.

“The gardener remarked that we should only sleep there; and seeing my mother about to go up to the next floor, he stopped her, indicating the dilapidated condition of the stairs.  ‘This floor is abandoned,’ he said; ’the platform above is in a very bad state, and the staircase impracticable and dangerous.  Mme. de Combray begs that you will never go above the first landing, for fear of an accident.’  After which he went to get our luggage.

“My mother then gave way to her feelings.  It was a mockery to lodge us in this rat-hole.  She talked of going straight back to Paris; but our servant was so happy at having no longer to fear the police; I had found so much pleasure gathering flowers in the wood and running after butterflies; my mother herself enjoyed the great calm and silence so much that the decision was put off till the next day.  And the next day we renounced all idea of going.

“Our life for the next two months was untroubled.  We were at the longest days of the year.  Once a week we were invited to supper at the chateau, and we came home through the woods at night in perfect security.  Sometimes in the afternoon my mother went to visit Mme. de Combray, and always found her playing at cards or tric-trac with friends staying at the chateau or passing through, but oftenest with a stout man, her lawyer.  No existence could be more commonplace or peaceful.  Although they talked politics freely (but with more restraint than my mother), she told me later that she never for one moment suspected that she was in a nest of conspirators.  Once or twice only Mme. de Combray, touched by the sincerity and ardour of her loyalty, seemed to be on the point of confiding in her.  She even forgot herself so far as to say:—­’Oh! if you were not so hot-headed, one would tell you certain things!’—­but as if already regretting that she had said so much, she stopped abruptly.