To have fame follow us is well, but it is not a desirable avant-courier.

Those sweetly smiling angels with pensive looks, innocent faces, and cash-boxes for hearts.

At fifteen, neither beauty nor talent exist: a woman is all promise.

Genuine sorrows are very tranquil in appearance in the deep bed they have dug for themselves. But, seeming to slumber, they corrode the soul like that frightful acid which penetrates crystal.

Men are such dupes by choice, that he who would impose upon others never need be at a loss to find ready victims.

Woman has this in common with angels, that suffering beings belong especially to her.

The happier a man, the more apt he is to tremble. In hearts exclusively tender, anxiety and jealousy are in exact proportion to happiness.