It depressed me all the more that I should be spending this Sunday alone because I had sent a note that morning to Mlle de Stermaria. Robert de Saint-Loup, whom his mother had at length succeeded - after painful abortive attempts - in parting from his mistress, and who immediately afterwards had been sent to Morocco in the hope of forgetting the woman he had already for some time ceased to love, had sent me a line, which had reached me the day before, announcing his imminent arrival in France for a short spell of leave. As he would only be passing through Paris (where his family were doubtless afraid of seeing him renew relations with Rachel), he informed me, to show me that he had been thinking of me, that he had met at Tangier Mlle or rather Mme (for she had divorced her husband after three months of marriage) de Stermaria. And Robert, remembering what I had said to him at Balbec, had asked on my behalf for an assignation with the young woman. She would be delighted to dine with me, she had told him, on one of the evenings which she would be spending in Paris before her return to Brittany. He told me to lose no time in writing to Mme de Stermaria, for she must certainly have arrived.
Saint-Loup's letter had come as no surprise to me, even thought I had had no news of him since, at the time of my grandmother's illness, he had accused me of perfidy and treachery. I had grasped at once what must have happened. Rachel, who liked to provoke his jealousy (she also had other causes for resentment against me), had persuaded her lover that I had made sly attempts to have relations with her in his absence. It is probable that he continued to believe in the truth of this allegation, but he had ceased to be in love with her, which meant that its truth or falsehood had become a matter of complete indifference to him, and our friendship alone remained.
Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, pp. 360-361
We're still revving up at the beginning of Chapter Two. Marcel may still be in pain because of his grandmother's passing, but there are assignations to be planned; such is the mindlessness of the young (I'd normally say the young man, but Rachel didn't display much understanding or compassion either). While Marcel's grandmother was dying Robert had sent him a letter accusing him of "perfidy and treachery," inspired by Rachel trying to make him jealous. Before I go any further I would like to announce that I'm now changing the title of my autobiography to Perfidy and Treachery: the Gary Scudder Story (coming to used and remainder bookstores soon). I was involved with a woman once who told me (normally this is where I point out that I'm paraphrasing, but I remember this clearly), "If you ever cheat on me I will fuck every one of your friends." It's funny how the fragility of the male ego makes that such an effective threat, and how any argument which may start at DEFCON 5 quickly ascends the scale to DEFCON 1 when you insert that level of mutually assured nuclear destruction. However, that threat only works when you're in love with the woman. As Proust writes, Robert "had ceased to be in love with her, which meant that its truth or falsehood had become a matter of complete indifference to him, and our friendship alone remained." Once love (and time) has passed, then it's just a topic of conversation among the boys.
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