There are houses in certain provincial towns whose aspect inspires melancholy, akin to that called forth by sombre cloisters, dreary moorlands, or the desolation of ruins. Within these houses there is, perhaps, the silence of the cloister, the barrenness of moors, the skeleton of ruins; life and movement are so stagnant there that a stranger might think them uninhabited, were it not that he encounters suddenly the pale, cold glance of a motionless person, whose half-monastic face peers beyond the window-casing at the sound of an unaccustomed step.

By resorting to self-resignation, the unfortunate consummate.

Necessity is often the spur to genius.

Emulation admires and strives to imitate great actions; envy is only moved to malice.

Vice is perhaps a desire to learn everything.

Society bristles with enigmas which look hard to solve. It is a perfect maze of intrigue.

Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.