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
SHORT STORIES VOLUME VI.
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?
SHORT STORIES VOLUME VII.
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."
SHORT STORIES VOLUME VIII.
"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."
It seems that he had led a bad life, that is to say, he had squandered a
little money, which action, in a poor family, is one of the greatest
crimes. With rich people a man who amuses himself only sows his wild
oats. He is what is generally called a sport. But among needy families
a boy who forces his parents to break into the capital becomes a
good-for-nothing, a rascal, a scamp. And this distinction is just, although
the action be the same, for consequences alone determine the seriousness
of the act.
"Why; you are just the same as the others, you fool!" That was indeed
bravado, one of those pieces of impudence of which a woman makes use when
she dares everything, risks everything, to wound and humiliate the man
who has aroused her ire. This poor man must also be one of those
deceived husbands, like so many others. He had said sadly: "There are
times when she seems to have more confidence and faith in our friends
than in me." That is how a husband formulated his observations on the
particular attentions of his wife for another man. That was all. He had
seen nothing more. He was like the rest—all the rest!
He awaited he knew not what, possessed with that vague hope which
persists in the human heart in spite of everything. He awaited in the
corner of the farmyard in the biting December wind, some mysterious aid
from Heaven or from men, without the least idea whence it was to arrive.
A number of black hens ran hither and thither, seeking their food in the
earth which supports all living things. Ever now and then they snapped
up in their beaks a grain of corn or a tiny insect; then they continued
their slow, sure search for nutriment.
SHORT STORIES VOLUME IX.
Full of that common sense which borders on stupidity
Let them respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs
Love that is sacred—not marriage!
Mediocrities and the fools always form the immense majority
Night-robe of streams and meadows
Only being allowed to read religious works or cook-books
Poetry did not seem to be the strong point
Purgatory and paradise according to the yearly income
She went through life in a mood of perpetual discontent
So stupid and they pretend they know everything
Spend his time quietly regretting the past
The tomb is the boundary of conjugal sinning
When we love, we have need of confession
World has made laws to combat our instincts