The country is provincial; it becomes ridiculous when it tries to ape Paris.

True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.

Love is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveal to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.

The first thing necessary to win the heart of a woman is opportunity.

Evasion is unworthy of us, and is always the intimate of equivocation.

Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster that devours everything: familiarity.

All we are is in the soul.