Nothing is more true, more real, than the primeval magnetic disturbances that two souls may communicate to one another, through the tiny sparks of a moment's glance.

And, moreover, when it happens that both are sincere and good, nothing will mix and amalgamate more easily than an old priest and an old soldier. In reality, they are the same kind of man. One has devoted himself to country upon earth, the other to his country in heaven; there is no other difference.

It may be remarked in passing that success is an ugly thing. Men are deceived by its false resemblences to merit.

Enthusiasm is the fever of reason.

He who contemplates the depths of Paris is seized with vertigo. Nothing is more fantastic. Nothing is more tragic. Nothing is more sublime.

Monastic incarceration is castration.

Nothing is more dangerous than discontinued labor; it is habit lost. A habit easy to abandon, difficult to resume.