Prestige! Sir, is it nothing? To be revered by fools, gaped at by children, envied by the rich and scorned by the wise.
In Paris, love is born of fiction.
One can acquire everything in solitude except character.
Never had he found himself so close to those terrible weapons of feminine artillery.
Love has always been the most important business in my life, I should say the only one.
An English traveller relates how he lived upon intimate terms with a tiger; he had reared it and used to play with it, but always kept a loaded pistol on the table.
Love is a beautiful flower, but we must be brave enough to pick her up from the edge of a precipice.
A girl of sixteen had a complexion like a rose, and she put on rouge.
What woman alive today would not be horrified to touch the head of her decapitated lover?’ Madame.
The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears.
Julien felt himself to be strong and resolute like a man who sees clearly into his own heart.
Could anything possibly be more humorous than believing in the depth or in the depravity of the Parisian character?