MASSIS   Monsieur?
Proust hands his card to Massis.

PROUST   These dreadful flowers. Au revoir.
Proust hurries away.
Massis looks at Proust’s card.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM/DRESSING ROOM CORRIDOR. NIGHT.

The sound of Proust struggling for breath in the middle of a severe asthma attack.

He switches on the light and sits up. He shuffles into the corridor for the candle.

Back at his bedside he gets a packet of powders from a box, pours a powder into a saucer, lights a slip of paper at the candle and ignites the powder, producing fumes which he breathes in as deeply as he can manage.

After a while his breathing becomes easier.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Céleste at the door with the tray, the room thick with fumes.

Céleste says nothing but puts the tray down by the bed and watches Proust, still not breathing properly.

PROUST   I’m better now. There were lilies at the concert. Terrible flowers. I’m feeling better now.

CÉLESTE   I’ll light the fire. It will draw out the fumes.

PROUST   Thank you, Céleste. Can I see the first three notebooks again, please?
Céleste goes to get him the notebooks.
He lies back and the room fills with the music he was listening to in the Concert Hall. Franck Quartet in D.

INT. PROUST’S BEDROOM. DAY.

Proust is being examined by his doctor, Dr Bize, a short, grey-haired man.

BIZE   Maître.
He finds his way through layers of sweaters to Proust’s back and applies a stethoscope.

BIZE   In. Out. In. Out. With asthma in is not difficult. Out is where problems arise.

PROUST   I think it’s neurotic.

BIZE   Oh, I don’t. You’d know if it were.

PROUST   Why? If a condition is capable of deceiving the doctor why should it not also deceive the patient? Do you dine out much, Doctor?

BIZE   From time to time, though not by choice. Madame Bize – she insists.

PROUST   Ah, do people tell you about their ailments, consult you at the dinner table?

BIZE   All the time.

PROUST   Tell me.

BIZE   People mistake their symptoms for small talk. This’ll interest you, Doctor, they say. Interest me! The other evening at dinner, my neighbour actually invited me to look down her throat. Which is all very well, but what will one be looking down or up next? I say, what will one be looking down or up next?
Proust listens intently, smiling slightly.

INT. PROUST’S APARTMENT. KITCHEN. DAY.

Céleste is standing at the stove.

BIZE   Is he eating?

CÉLESTE   As much as he ever does.

BIZE   Well he’s not in bad shape, for him. It’s a good job. You have to be pretty fit to go on being as ill as he is.

CÉLESTE   It was a bad attack.

BIZE   He blamed it on some roses.

CÉLESTE   Lilies.