Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when, by taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires.
So it was that Dantes, during the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained under lock and key, forgotten, if not by men, at least by God.
For Milady was well aware that her most seductive power was in her voice, which could run skilfully through the whole scale of tones, from mortal speech, upwards to the language of heaven.
Tree forsakes not the flower – the flower falls from the tree.
Never did a man deeply in love allow the clocks to go on peacefully.
Death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an enemy who violently drags the soul from the body.
And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d’Artagnan – for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named – from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present were above all price.
Danglars was one of those calculating men who are born with a pen behind their ear and an inkwell instead of a heart.
D’Artagnan is right,” said Athos. “Behold our three leaves of absence, which come from M. de Treville; and here are three hundred pistoles, which come from I know not where. Let us go and be killed where we are told to go. Is life worth so many questions? D’Artagnan, I am ready to follow you.
Be nice to people on your way up because you might meet ’em on your way down.
Incertitude is still hope.
If I am happy in an error, do not have the cruelty to lift me from it.
Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds many things can be done.
I do as I please, Monsieur Beauchamp, and believe me, what I do is always well done.
Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of social position not to feel the trammels of etiquette.
Today’s friends are tomorrow’s enemies.
It was one of those events which decide the life of a man;.
And without waiting for the answer of the newcomer to this proof of affection, M. de Treville seized his right hand and pressed it with all his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and if possible, grew paler than he was before.
As we have seen, Villefort belonged to the nobility of the town and M. Morrel to the plebeian part of it: the former was an extreme Royalist, the latter suspected of harbouring Bonapartist sympathies. Villefort looked contemptuously at Morrel and answered coldly: ‘You know, Monsieur, that one can be mild in one’s private life, honest in one’s business dealings and skilled in one’s work, yet at the same time, politically speaking, be guilty of great crimes.
It was only then that he met Villefort’s dull gaze, that look peculiar to men of the law who do not want anyone to read their thoughts, and so make their eyes into unpolished glass. The look reminded him that he was standing before Justice, a figure of grim aspect and manners.