Up to forty a woman has only forty springs in her heart. After that age she has only forty winters.
Always have old memories, and young hopes.
There are two persons in the world we never see as they are, – one’s self and one’s other self.
The heart is always young only in the recollection of those whom it has loved in youth.
Happiness is always the inaccessible castle which sinks in ruin when we set foot on it.
The graves of those we have loved and lost distress and console as.
Imagination, whatever may be said to the contrary, will always hold a place in history, as truth does in romance. Has not romance been penned with history in view?
Hope is the virgin of the ideal world, who opens beaten to as in the midst of every tempest.
Genius has its fatality. Must we not see in its works a manifestation of the will of Providence?
Have you not sometimes seen happiness? Yes, the happiness of others.
Friendship lives on its income, love devours its capital.
The Parisienne is not in fashion, she is fashion.
Whoever embarks with women embarks with a storm; but they are themselves the safety boats.
Women of forty always fancy they have found the Fountain of Youth, and that they remain young in the midst of the ruins of their day.