Never had the sky been more studded with stars and more charming, the trees more trembling, the odor of the grass more penetrating; never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter noise; never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded more thoroughly to the inward music of love; never had Marius been more captivated, more happy, more ecstatic.

How frightened hypocrisy hastens to defend itself.

Mothers arms are made of tenderness, And sweet sleep blesses the child who lies therein.

The cruel of heart have their own black happiness.

Nothing is more imminent than the impossible . . . what we must always foresee is the unforeseen.

I am an intelligent river which has reflected successively all the banks before which it has flowed by meditating only on the images offered by those changing shores.

Crime is redeemed by remorse, but not by a blow of the axe or slipknot. Blood has to be washed by tears but not by blood.