Thanks to the toleration preached by the encyclopedists of the eighteenth century, the sorcerer is exempt from torture.

We love because we love.

How sternly we reproach virtue for its failings, how indulgent we are to the better qualities of vice!

The press is like a woman: sublime when it lies, it will not let go until it has forced you to believe it. The public, like a foolish husband, always succumbs.

Your women of fashion ceases to be a woman. She is neither mother, nor wife, nor lover. She is, medically speaking, sex on the brain.

When there is an old maid in the house, a watchdog is unnecessary.

It would be curious to know what leads a man to become a stationer rather than a baker, when he is no longer compelled, as among the Egyptians, to succeed to his father's craft.