Paris, like every pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable whims of beauty and ugliness.

Love or hatred must constantly increase between two persons who are always together; every moment fresh reasons are found for loving or hating better.

In Paris every man must have had a love affair. What woman wants something that no other woman ever wanted.

Men are perfectly willing to abandon a woman but they refuse to be abandoned by her.

Vice is perhaps a desire to learn everything.

Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.

We must certainly acknowledge that solitude is a fine thing; but it is a pleasure to have some one who can answer, and to whom we can say, from time to time, that solitude is a fine thing.