Lad. Out of fashion word, that. I read the passage where Marcel the narrator visits his roue uncle on the sly, hoping to meet once of his uncle's fancy women. Having a hard time honing in on "Marcel's" age. He is interested (quite interested) in women and girls, yet he seems psychologically very young and not at all astute in relationship to his parents.
As luck and fiction would have it, a beautiful young lady in a pink dress is with his uncle. She is eating a tangerine. Then they smoke, but she only likes the kind of cigarettes the grand duke provides her with.
Dumb Marcel goes home and talks around his visit, thinking himself very sly, but his foxy parents immediately worm out of him where he has been and who was there. The uncle is forever persona non grata. Dumb kid. Really dumb.
He mentions once that something is a hard choice, like chosing between riz a la imperatrice and the chocolate pudding. I'd go for the chocolate every time. The household runs a good kitchen, no doubt about that. Wonder if it was as good as Monet's. The writer Bergotte has finally appeared.
Off to have lunch with former colleagues.