And so, when I had found, one day, in a book by Bergotte, some joke about an old family servant, to which his solemn and magnificent style added a great deal of irony, but which was in principle what I had often said to my grandmother about Françoise, and when, another time, I had discovered that he thought not unworthy of reflection in one of those mirrors of absolute Truth which were his writings, a remark similar to one which I had had occasion to make on our friend M. Legrandin (and, moreover, my remarks on Françoise and M. Legrandin were among those which I would most resolutely have sacrificed for Bergotte's sake, in the belief that he would find them quite without interest); then it was suddenly revealed to me that my own humble existence and the Realms of Truth were less widely separated than I had supposed, that at certain points they were actually in contact; and in my new-found confidence and joy I wept upon his printed page, as in the arms of a long-lost father.
Egun batez, Bergotteren liburu batean, neskame zahar bati buruzko txantxa bat irakurri nuelarik, idazlearen mintzaira bikain eta handiosak are ironiatsuago bihurtzen zuena baina berez nik neuk amari Françoiseri buruz sarritan egina niòn berbera besterik ez zena, eta, beste egun batez, ikusi nuelarik ezen ez ziola ezduin irizten, egiaren ispilu zirèn bere obretan, gure adiskide Legrandin jaunari buruz nik inoiz egina nuèn ohartarazpenaren antzeko bat azaltzeari (ohartarazpenok, bai Françoiseri bai Legrandin jaunari buruzkook, Bergotteren aurrean nik deliberamendu osoz sakrifikatzeko batere zalantzarik izango ez nukeenok, hark ziurrenik interesik gabekotzat kausituko zituzkeelakoan), bat-batean iruditu zitzaidan ezen nire bizitza apala eta egiaren erresuma ez zeudela nonbait nik uste izana nuèn bezain elkarrengandik urrun, areago, bat egiten zutela zenbait puntutan, eta une hartan, neure buruarekiko on-usteaz eta bozkarioz, negar egin nuen idazlearen orrialdeen gainean, aita berraurkitu baten besoetan bezala.