Women are always true, even in the midst of their greatest falsities, because they are always influenced by some natural feeling.

In the silence of their studios, busied for days at a time with works which leave the mind relatively free, painters become like women; their thoughts can revolve around the minor facts of life and penetrate their hidden meaning.

Rare is the man who suffers no remorse as he passes from the state of confidant to that of rival.

Whereas scoundrels become reconciled after knifing one another, lovers break up irrevocably over a mere glance or word.

Today nobility is gone: there is only a peerage.

With every one, the expectation of a misfortune constitutes a dreadful, punishment. Suffering then assumes the proportions of the unknown, which is the soul's infinite.

We are scarcely apt to berate the source of enjoyment.