A mother's happiness is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories.

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

Today nobility is gone: there is only a peerage.

Heaven should be kind to stupid people, for no one else can be consistently.

Rich women need not fear old age; their gold can always create about them any feelings necessary to their happiness.

The boor covers himself, the rich man or the fool adorns himself, and the elegant man gets dressed.

Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay nor turn aside.