Is it not rather the touch of Love, of Love the Mysterious,
who seeks constantly to unite two beings, who tries
his strength the instant he has put a man and a woman
face to face?
Calling all religious things “weeper’s
wares”
Everyone has his share
How much excited cowardice there often is in boldness
Love has no law
People do not think as they speak, and do not speak
as they act
Rage of a timid man
She saw that he would yield on every point
As he had never enjoyed anything, he desired nothing
Do you know how I picture God?
Don’t know what to say, for I am always terribly
stupid at first
Hotel bed: Who has occupied it the night before?
Irresistible force of mutual affection
Isn’t for the fun of it, anyhow!
Love must unsettle the mind
Machine for bringing children into the world
Moments of friendly silence
One cannot both be and have been
Only by going a long distance from home
Sadness of existences that have had their day
Well-planned disorder
When did you lie, the last time or now?
A sceptical genius has said: “God made
man in his image and man has returned the compliment.”
This saying is an eternal truth, and it would be
very curious to write the history of the local divinity
of every continent as well as the history of the patron
saints in each one of our provinces. The negro
has his ferocious man-eating idols; the polygamous
Mahometan fills his paradise with women; the Greeks,
like a practical people, deified all the passions.
Pierre Letoile was silent. His companions were
laughing. One of them said: “Marriage
is indeed a lottery; you must never choose your numbers.
The haphazard ones are the best.”—Another
added by way of conclusion: “Yes, but do
not forget that the god of drunkards chose for Pierre.”
No noise in the little park, no breath of air in the
leaves; no voice passes through this silence.
One ought to write at the entrance to this district:
‘No one laughs here; they take care of their
health.’
“Listen, Jacques. He has forbidden me
to see you again, and I will not play this comedy
of coming secretly to your house. You must either
lose me or take me.”—“My dear
Irene, in that case, obtain your divorce, and I will
marry you.”—“Yes, you will marry
me in—two years at the soonest. Yours
is a patient love.”
“Do you know the people who live in the little
red cottage at the end of the Rue du Berceau?”—Madame
Bondel was out of sorts. She answered:
“Yes and no; I am acquainted with them, but I
do not care to know them.”
