“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. She had warned him. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. . Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. In spite of the tumultuous joy which agitated him, the bridegroom could not prevent the intrusion of some saddening thoughts, as he reflected upon the melancholy scene which he had so recently witnessed in the same place. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him.
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