The Parisan, sauntering the streets idly, is as often a man in despair as a lounger.

We cannot confront solitude without moral resources.

A grass blade believes that men build palaces for it to grow in. Grass wedges its way between the closest blocks of marble and it brings them down. This power of feeble life which can creep in anywhere is greater than that of the mighty behind their cannons.

Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.

A murderer is less loathsome to us than a spy. The murderer may have acted on a sudden mad impulse; he may be penitent and amend; but a spy is always a spy, night and day, in bed, at table, as he walks abroad; his vileness pervades every moment of his life

Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.

Any man, however blase or depraved, finds his love kindled anew when he sees himself threatened by a rival.