Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he sat up, a long stream of blood rolled down his face, he raised both arms in air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing.

A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.

The soul does not give itself up to despair until it has exhausted all illusions.

There is something more terrible than a hell of suffering--a hell of boredom.

Excitement is not enjoyment: in calmness lies true pleasure. The most precious wines are sipped, not bolted at a swallow.

Conscience is God present in man.

Mirrors, those revealers of the truth, are hated; that does not prevent them from being of use.