This book should be read as one would read the book of a dead man.

And if it happened to be a Christmas-night when the great bell seemed to rattle in its throat as it called the faithful to the midnight mass, there was such an indescribable air of life spread over the sombre facade that the great door-way looked as if it were swallowing the entire crowd, and the rose-window staring at them.

Go to sleep in peace. God is awake.

A breath of Paris preserves the soul.

Is there not in every human soul a primitive spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world and immortal in the next, which can be developed by goodness, kindled, lit up, and made to radiate, and which evil can never entirely extinguish.

At a certain depth of distress, the poor, in their stupor, groan no longer over evil, and are no longer thankful for good.

To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.