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He went in the Argenteuil cars, got out at Sannois, climbed that pretty hill that commands the loveliest of views, and stopped at the inn of Trouillet mills in order to breakfast there. The morning was charming it was in the middle of August and the approach of autumn was already felt, which enhances the beauty of all things.
He was speaking to himself murmuring over and over again the same phrase. "She is mine!" he repeated to the vines bordering the road, to the mill of Trouillet, to the Sannois Hills, whose vague outlines loomed up against the sky. "She is mine!" he cried to the moon, which this evening shone for him alone, whose sole occupation was to gaze upon Samuel Brohl.
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