Chapter I: Part 1

Ver.10/04/01*END*

This etext was produced by David Widger <[email protected].

WIDGER'S QUOTATIONS

FROM THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF THE IMMORTALS OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY

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D.W.

THE ENTIRE PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITION OF THE FRENCH IMMORTALS

CROWNED BY THE FRENCH ACADEMY

CONTENTS: (listed in reversed order)

Apr 2003 Entire PG Edition of The French Immortals [IM#87][imewk10.txt]4000 Apr 2003 Entire An "Attic" Philosopher by Souvestre [IM#86][im86b10.txt]3999 Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v3 [IM#85][im85b10.txt]3998 Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v2 [IM#84][im84b10.txt]3997 Apr 2003 An "Attic" Philosopher by E. Souvestre, v1 [IM#83][im83b10.txt]3996

Apr 2003 The Entire Madame Chrysantheme by Loti [IM#82][im82b10.txt]3995 Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v4 [IM#81][im81b10.txt]3994 Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v3 [IM#80][im80b10.txt]3993 Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v2 [IM#79][im79b10.txt]3992 Apr 2003 Madame Chrysantheme by Pierre Loti, v1 [IM#78][im78b10.txt]3991

Apr 2003 The Entire Conscience by Hector Malot [IM#77][im77b10.txt]3990 Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v4 [IM#76][im76b10.txt]3989 Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v3 [IM#75][im75b10.txt]3988 Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v2 [IM#74][im74b10.txt]3987 Apr 2003 Conscience by Hector Malot, v1 [IM#73][im73b10.txt]3986

Apr 2003 The Entire Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard [IM#72][im72b10.txt]3885 Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v4 [IM#71][im71b10.txt]3984 Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v3 [IM#70][im70b10.txt]3983 Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v2 [IM#69][im69b10.txt]3982 Apr 2003 Gerfaut by Charles de Bernard, v1 [IM#68][im68b10.txt]3981

Apr 2003 The Entire Fromont and Risler, by Daudet [IM#67][im67b10.txt]3980 Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v4 [IM#66][im66b10.txt]3979 Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v3 [IM#65][im65b10.txt]3978 Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v2 [IM#64][im64b10.txt]3977 Apr 2003 Fromont and Risler by Alphonse Daudet, v1 [IM#63][im63b10.txt]3976

Apr 2003 Entire The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin [IM#62][im62b10.txt]3975 Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v3 [IM#61][im61b10.txt]3974 Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v2 [IM#60][im60b10.txt]3973 Apr 2003 The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin, v1 [IM#59][im59b10.txt]3972

Apr 2003 Entire Jacqueline by Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) [IM#58][im58b10.txt]3971 Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v3 [IM#57][im57b10.txt]3970 Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v2 [IM#56][im56b10.txt]3969 Apr 2003 Jacqueline by Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc), v1 [IM#55][im55b10.txt]3968

Apr 2003 Entire Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget [IM#54][im54b10.txt]3967 Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v4 [IM#53][im53b10.txt]3966 Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v3 [IM#52][im52b10.txt]3965 Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v2 [IM#51][im51b10.txt]3964 Apr 2003 Cosmopolis by Paul Bourget, v1 [IM#50][im50b10.txt]3963

Apr 2003 Entire Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee [IM#49][im49b10.txt]3962 Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v4 [IM#48][im48b10.txt]3961 Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v3 [IM#47][im47b10.txt]3960 Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v2 [IM#46][im46b10.txt]3959 Apr 2003 A Romance of Youth by Francois Coppee, v1 [IM#45][im45b10.txt]3958

Apr 2003 Entire L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy [IM#44][im44b10.txt]3957 Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v3 [IM#43][im43b10.txt]3956 Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v2 [IM#42][im42b10.txt]3955 Apr 2003 L'Abbe Constantin by Ludovic Halevy, v1 [IM#41][im41b10.txt]3954

Apr 2003 The Entire Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny [IM#40][im40b10.txt]3953 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v6 [IM#39][im39b10.txt]3952 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v5 [IM#38][im38b10.txt]3951 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v4 [IM#37][im37b10.txt]3950 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v3 [IM#36][im36b10.txt]3949 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v2 [IM#35][im35b10.txt]3948 Apr 2003 Cinq Mars, by Alfred de Vigny, v1 [IM#34][im34b10.txt]3947

Apr 2003 Entire Monsieur de Camors by Oct. Feuillet [IM#33][im33b10.txt]3946 Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v3 [IM#32][im32b10.txt]3945 Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v2 [IM#31][im31b10.txt]3944 Apr 2003 Monsieur de Camors by Octave Feuillet, v1 [IM#30][im30b10.txt]3943

Apr 2003 Entire Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset[IM#29][im29b10.txt]3942 Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v3 [IM#28][im28b10.txt]3941 Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v2 [IM#27][im27b10.txt]3940 Apr 2003 Child of a Century, Alfred de Musset, v1 [IM#26][im26b10.txt]3939

Apr 2003 Entire A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet [IM#25][im25b10.txt]3938 Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v3 [IM#24][im24b10.txt]3937 Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v2 [IM#23][im23b10.txt]3936 Apr 2003 A Woodland Queen, by Andre Theuriet, v1 [IM#22][im22b10.txt]3935

Apr 2003 The Entire Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa [IM#21][im21b10.txt]3934 Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v3 [IM#20][im20b10.txt]3933 Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v2 [IM#19][im19b10.txt]3932 Apr 2003 Zebiline by Phillipe de Masa, v1 [IM#18][im18b10.txt]3931

Apr 2003 The Entire Prince Zilah by Jules Claretie [IM#17][im17b10.txt]3930 Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v3 [IM#16][im16b10.txt]3929 Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v2 [IM#15][im15b10.txt]3928 Apr 2003 Prince Zilah, by Jules Claretie, v1 [IM#14][im14b10.txt]3927

Apr 2003 The Entire MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz [IM#13][im13b10.txt]3926 Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v3 [IM#12][im12b10.txt]3925 Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v2 [IM#11][im11b10.txt]3924 Apr 2003 MM.and Bebe by Gustave Droz, v1 [IM#10][im10b10.txt]3923

Apr 2003 Entire The Red Lily, by Anatole France [IM#09][im09b10.txt]3922 Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v3 [IM#08][im08b10.txt]3921 Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v2 [IM#07][im07b10.txt]3920 Apr 2003 The Red Lily, by Anatole France, v1 [IM#06][im06b10.txt]3919

Apr 2003 The Entire Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet [IM#05][im05b10.txt]3918 Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v4 [IM#04][im04b10.txt]3917 Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v3 [IM#03][im03b10.txt]3916 Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v2 [IM#02][im02b10.txt]3915 Apr 2003 Serge Panine, by Georges Ohnet, v1 [IM#01][im01b10.txt]3914

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE SERIES BY GASTON BOISSIER,
SECRETAIRE PERPETUEL DE L'ACADEMIE FRANCAISE.

The editor-in-chief of the Maison Mazarin--a man of letters who cherishes an enthusiastic yet discriminating love for the literary and artistic glories of France--formed within the last two pears the great project of collecting and presenting to the vast numbers of intelligent readers of whom New World boasts a series of those great and undying romances which, since 1784, have received the crown of merit awarded by the French Academy--that coveted assurance of immortality in letters and in art.

In the presentation of this serious enterprise for the criticism and official sanction of The Academy, 'en seance', was included a request that, if possible, the task of writing a preface to the series should be undertaken by me. Official sanction having been bestowed upon the plan, I, as the accredited officer of the French Academy, convey to you its hearty appreciation, endorsement, and sympathy with a project so nobly artistic. It is also my duty, privilege, and pleasure to point out, at the request of my brethren, the peculiar importance and lasting value of this series to all who would know the inner life of a people whose greatness no turns of fortune have been able to diminish.

In the last hundred years France has experienced the most terrible vicissitudes, but, vanquished or victorious, triumphant or abased, never has she lost her peculiar gift of attracting the curiosity of the world. She interests every living being, and even those who do not love her desire to know her. To this peculiar attraction which radiates from her, artists and men of letters can well bear witness, since it is to literature and to the arts, before all, that France owes such living and lasting power. In every quarter of the civilized world there are distinguished writers, painters, and eminent musicians, but in France they exist in greater numbers than elsewhere. Moreover, it is universally conceded that French writers and artists have this particular and praiseworthy quality: they are most accessible to people of other countries. Without losing their national characteristics, they possess the happy gift of universality. To speak of letters alone: the books that Frenchmen write are read, translated, dramatized, and imitated everywhere; so it is not strange that these books give to foreigners a desire for a nearer and more intimate acquaintance with France.

Men preserve an almost innate habit of resorting to Paris from almost every quarter of the globe. For many years American visitors have been more numerous than others, although the journey from the United States is long and costly. But I am sure that when for the first time they see Paris--its palaces, its churches, its museums--and visit Versailles, Fontainebleau, and Chantilly, they do not regret the travail they have undergone. Meanwhile, however, I ask myself whether such sightseeing is all that, in coming hither, they wish to accomplish. Intelligent travellers--and, as a rule, it is the intelligent class that feels the need of the educative influence of travel--look at our beautiful monuments, wander through the streets and squares among the crowds that fill them, and, observing them, I ask myself again: Do not such people desire to study at closer range these persons who elbow them as they pass; do they not wish to enter the houses of which they see but the facades; do they not wish to know how Parisians live and speak and act by their firesides? But time, alas! is lacking for the formation of those intimate friendships which would bring this knowledge within their grasp. French homes are rarely open to birds of passage, and visitors leave us with regret that they have not been able to see more than the surface of our civilization or to recognize by experience the note of our inner home life.

How, then, shall this void be filled? Speaking in the first person, the simplest means appears to be to study those whose profession it is to describe the society of the time, and primarily, therefore, the works of dramatic writers, who are supposed to draw a faithful picture of it. So we go to the theatre, and usually derive keen pleasure therefrom. But is pleasure all that we expect to find? What we should look for above everything in a comedy or a drama is a representation, exact as possible, of the manners and characters of the dramatis persona of the play; and perhaps the conditions under which the play was written do not allow such representation. The exact and studied portrayal of a character demands from the author long preparation, and cannot be accomplished in a few hours. From, the first scene to the last, each tale must be posed in the author's mind exactly as it will be proved to be at the end. It is the author's aim and mission to place completely before his audience the souls of the "agonists" laying bare the complications of motive, and throwing into relief the delicate shades of motive that sway them. Often, too, the play is produced before a numerous audience--an audience often distrait, always pressed for time, and impatient of the least delay. Again, the public in general require that they shall be able to understand without difficulty, and at first thought, the characters the author seeks to present, making it necessary that these characters be depicted from their most salient sides--which are too often vulgar and unattractive.

In our comedies and dramas it is not the individual that is drawn, but the type. Where the individual alone is real, the type is a myth of the imagination--a pure invention. And invention is the mainspring of the theatre, which rests purely upon illusion, and does not please us unless it begins by deceiving us.

I believe, then, that if one seeks to know the world exactly as it is, the theatre does not furnish the means whereby one can pursue the study. A far better opportunity for knowing the private life of a people is available through the medium of its great novels. The novelist deals with each person as an individual. He speaks to his reader at an hour when the mind is disengaged from worldly affairs, and he can add without restraint every detail that seems needful to him to complete the rounding of his story. He can return at will, should he choose, to the source of the plot he is unfolding, in order that his reader may better understand him; he can emphasize and dwell upon those details which an audience in a theatre will not allow.

The reader, being at leisure, feels no impatience, for he knows that he can at any time lay down or take up the book. It is the consciousness of this privilege that gives him patience, should he encounter a dull page here or there. He may hasten or delay his reading, according to the interest he takes in his romance-nay, more, he can return to the earlier pages, should he need to do so, for a better comprehension of some obscure point. In proportion as he is attracted and interested by the romance, and also in the degree of concentration with which he reads it, does he grasp better the subtleties of the narrative. No shade of character drawing escapes him. He realizes, with keener appreciation, the most delicate of human moods, and the novelist is not compelled to introduce the characters to him, one by one, distinguishing them only by the most general characteristics, but can describe each of those little individual idiosyncrasies that contribute to the sum total of a living personality.

When I add that the dramatic author is always to a certain extent a slave to the public, and must ever seek to please the passing taste of his time, it will be recognized that he is often, alas! compelled to sacrifice his artistic leanings to popular caprice-that is, if he has the natural desire that his generation should applaud him.

As a rule, with the theatre-going masses, one person follows the fads or fancies of others, and individual judgments are too apt to be irresistibly swayed by current opinion. But the novelist, entirely independent of his reader, is not compelled to conform himself to the opinion of any person, or to submit to his caprices. He is absolutely free to picture society as he sees it, and we therefore can have more confidence in his descriptions of the customs and characters of the day.

It is precisely this view of the case that the editor of the series has taken, and herein is the raison d'etre of this collection of great French romances. The choice was not easy to make. That form of literature called the romance abounds with us. France has always loved it, for French writers exhibit a curiosity--and I may say an indiscretion--that is almost charming in the study of customs and morals at large; a quality that induces them to talk freely of themselves and of their neighbors, and to set forth fearlessly both the good and the bad in human nature. In this fascinating phase of literature, France never has produced greater examples than of late years.

In the collection here presented to American readers will be found those works especially which reveal the intimate side of French social life- works in which are discussed the moral problems that affect most potently the life of the world at large. If inquiring spirits seek to learn the customs and manners of the France of any age, they must look for it among her crowned romances. They need go back no farther than Ludovic Halevy, who may be said to open the modern epoch. In the romantic school, on its historic side, Alfred de Vigny must be looked upon as supreme. De Musset and Anatole France may be taken as revealing authoritatively the moral philosophy of nineteenth-century thought. I must not omit to mention the Jacqueline of Th. Bentzon, and the "Attic" Philosopher of Emile Souvestre, nor the, great names of Loti, Claretie, Coppe, Bazin, Bourget, Malot, Droz, De Massa, and last, but not least, our French Dickens, Alphonse Daudet. I need not add more; the very names of these "Immortals" suffice to commend the series to readers in all countries.

One word in conclusion: America may rest assured that her students of international literature will find in this series of 'ouvrages couronnes' all that they may wish to know of France at her own fireside--a knowledge that too often escapes them, knowledge that embraces not only a faithful picture of contemporary life in the French provinces, but a living and exact description of French society in modern times. They may feel certain that when they have read these romances, they will have sounded the depths and penetrated into the hidden intimacies of France, not only as she is, but as she would be known.

GASTON BOISSIER

SECRETAIRE PERPETUEL DE L'ACADEMIE FRANCAISE

THE IMMORTALS OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY

SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET

SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V1 [IM#01][im01b10.txt]3914

A man weeps with difficulty before a woman Antagonism to plutocracy and hatred of aristocrats Enough to be nobody's unless I belong to him Even those who do not love her desire to know her Flayed and roasted alive by the critics Hard workers are pitiful lovers He lost his time, his money, his hair, his illusions He was very unhappy at being misunderstood I thought the best means of being loved were to deserve it Men of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workers My aunt is jealous of me because I am a man of ideas Negroes, all but monkeys! Patience, should he encounter a dull page here or there Romanticism still ferments beneath the varnish of Naturalism Sacrifice his artistic leanings to popular caprice Unqualified for happiness You are talking too much about it to be sincere

SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V2 [IM#02][im02b10.txt]3915

A uniform is the only garb which can hide poverty honorably Forget a dream and accept a reality I don't pay myself with words Implacable self-interest which is the law of the world In life it is only nonsense that is common-sense Is a man ever poor when he has two arms? Is it by law only that you wish to keep me? Nothing that provokes laughter more than a disappointed lover Suffering is a human law; the world is an arena The uncontested power which money brings We had taken the dream of a day for eternal happiness What is a man who remains useless

SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V3 [IM#03][im03b10.txt]3916

Because they moved, they thought they were progressing Everywhere was feverish excitement, dissipation, and nullity It was a relief when they rose from the table Money troubles are not mortal One amuses one's self at the risk of dying Scarcely was one scheme launched when another idea occurred Talk with me sometimes. You will not chatter trivialities They had only one aim, one passion--to enjoy themselves Without a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner

SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET, V4 [IM#04][im04b10.txt]3917

Cowardly in trouble as he had been insolent in prosperity Heed that you lose not in dignity what you gain in revenge She would have liked the world to be in mourning The guilty will not feel your blows, but the innocent

THE ENTIRE SERGE PANINE, BY GEORGES OHNET [IM#05][im05b10.txt]3918

A man weeps with difficulty before a woman A uniform is the only garb which can hide poverty honorably Antagonism to plutocracy and hatred of aristocrats Because they moved, they thought they were progressing Cowardly in trouble as he had been insolent in prosperity Enough to be nobody's unless I belong to him Even those who do not love her desire to know her Everywhere was feverish excitement, dissipation, and nullity Flayed and roasted alive by the critics Forget a dream and accept a reality Hard workers are pitiful lovers He lost his time, his money, his hair, his illusions He was very unhappy at being misunderstood Heed that you lose not in dignity what you gain in revenge I thought the best means of being loved were to deserve it I don't pay myself with words Implacable self-interest which is the law of the world In life it is only nonsense that is common-sense Is a man ever poor when he has two arms? Is it by law only that you wish to keep me? It was a relief when they rose from the table Men of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workers Money troubles are not mortal My aunt is jealous of me because I am a man of ideas Negroes, all but monkeys! Nothing that provokes laughter more than a disappointed lover One amuses one's self at the risk of dying Patience, should he encounter a dull page here or there Romanticism still ferments beneath the varnish of Naturalism Sacrifice his artistic leanings to popular caprice Scarcely was one scheme launched when another idea occurred She would have liked the world to be in mourning Suffering is a human law; the world is an arena Talk with me sometimes. You will not chatter trivialities The guilty will not feel your blows, but the innocent The uncontested power which money brings They had only one aim, one passion--to enjoy themselves Unqualified for happiness We had taken the dream of a day for eternal happiness What is a man who remains useless Without a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner You are talking too much about it to be sincere

THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE

THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V1 [IM#06][im06b10.txt]3919

A hero must be human. Napoleon was human Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere Brilliancy of a fortune too new Curious to know her face of that day Do you think that people have not talked about us? Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city Gave value to her affability by not squandering it He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes He is not intelligent enough to doubt He studied until the last moment Her husband had become quite bearable His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness I gave myself to him because he loved me I haven't a taste, I have tastes It was too late: she did not wish to win Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope Laughing in every wrinkle of his face Learn to live without desire Life as a whole is too vast and too remote Life is made up of just such trifles Life is not a great thing Love was only a brief intoxication Made life give all it could yield Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past None but fools resisted the current Not everything is known, but everything is said One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars Picturesquely ugly Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her She is happy, since she likes to remember She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice That if we live the reason is that we hope That sort of cold charity which is called altruism The discouragement which the irreparable gives The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne The violent pleasure of losing Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? Whether they know or do not know, they talk

THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V2 [IM#07][im07b10.txt]3920

A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality He knew now the divine malady of love I do not desire your friendship I have known things which I know no more I wished to spoil our past Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object Jealous without having the right to be jealous Lovers never separate kindly Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud Nobody troubled himself about that originality One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others Superior men sometimes lack cleverness The door of one's room opens on the infinite The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you The past is the only human reality--Everything that is, is past There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel They are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle' To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault You must take me with my own soul!

THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE, V3 [IM#08][im08b10.txt]3921

Does one ever possess what one loves? Each was moved with self-pity Everybody knows about that (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder I can forget you only when I am with you I have to pay for the happiness you give me I love myself because you love me Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests Immobility of time It is an error to be in the right too soon It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him Kissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges Little that we can do when we are powerful Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain One is never kind when one is in love One should never leave the one whom one loves Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill Since she was in love, she had lost prudence That absurd and generous fury for ownership The politician never should be in advance of circumstances The real support of a government is the Opposition There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget We are too happy; we are robbing life

ENTIRE THE RED LILY, BY ANATOLE FRANCE [IM#09][im09b10.txt]3922

A woman is frank when she does not lie uselessly A hero must be human. Napoleon was human Anti-Semitism is making fearful progress everywhere Brilliancy of a fortune too new Curious to know her face of that day Disappointed her to escape the danger she had feared Do you think that people have not talked about us? Does not wish one to treat it with either timidity or brutality Does one ever possess what one loves? Each had regained freedom, but he did not like to be alone Each was moved with self-pity Everybody knows about that Fringe which makes an unlovely border to the city Gave value to her affability by not squandering it He could not imagine that often words are the same as actions He studied until the last moment He is not intelligent enough to doubt He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes He knew now the divine malady of love Her husband had become quite bearable His habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth (Housemaid) is trained to respect my disorder I love myself because you love me I can forget you only when I am with you I wished to spoil our past I feel in them (churches) the grandeur of nothingness I have to pay for the happiness you give me I gave myself to him because he loved me I haven't a taste, I have tastes I have known things which I know no more I do not desire your friendship Ideas they think superior to love--faith, habits, interests Immobility of time Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself Incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object It was torture for her not to be able to rejoin him It is an error to be in the right too soon It was too late: she did not wish to win Jealous without having the right to be jealous Kissses and caresses are the effort of a delightful despair Knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope Laughing in every wrinkle of his face Learn to live without desire Let us give to men irony and pity as witnesses and judges Life as a whole is too vast and too remote Life is made up of just such trifles Life is not a great thing Little that we can do when we are powerful Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty Love was only a brief intoxication Lovers never separate kindly Made life give all it could yield Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past Nobody troubled himself about that originality None but fools resisted the current Not everything is known, but everything is said Nothing is so legitimate, so human, as to deceive pain One would think that the wind would put them out: the stars One who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel One is never kind when one is in love One should never leave the one whom one loves Picturesquely ugly Recesses of her mind which she preferred not to open Relatives whom she did not know and who irritated her Seemed to him that men were grains in a coffee-mill She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it She is happy, since she likes to remember Should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one Simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others Since she was in love, she had lost prudence So well satisfied with his reply that he repeated it twice Superior men sometimes lack cleverness That sort of cold charity which is called altruism That if we live the reason is that we hope That absurd and generous fury for ownership The most radical breviary of scepticism since Montaigne The door of one's room opens on the infinite The past is the only human reality -- Everything that is, is past The one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you The violent pleasure of losing The discouragement which the irreparable gives The real support of a government is the Opposition The politician never should be in advance of circumstances There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel They are the coffin saying: 'I am the cradle' To be beautiful, must a woman have that thin form Trying to make Therese admire what she did not know Umbrellas, like black turtles under the watery skies Unfortunate creature who is the plaything of life Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? We are too happy; we are robbing life What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world Whether they know or do not know, they talk Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault You must take me with my own soul!

MADAME, MONSIEUR. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ

MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V1 [IM#10][im10b10.txt]3923

A ripe husband, ready to fall from the tree Answer "No," but with a little kiss which means "Yes" As regards love, intention and deed are the same Clumsily, blew his nose, to the great relief of his two arms Emotion when one does not share it Hearty laughter which men affect to assist digestion How rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawers Husband who loves you and eats off the same plate is better I came here for that express purpose Ignorant of everything, undesirous of learning anything It is silly to blush under certain circumstances Love in marriage is, as a rule, too much at his ease Rather do not give--make yourself sought after Reckon yourself happy if in your husband you find a lover There are pious falsehoods which the Church excuses To be able to smoke a cigar without being sick Why mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap

MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V2 [IM#11][im11b10.txt]3924

But she thinks she is affording you pleasure Do not seek too much First impression is based upon a number of trifles Sometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the past The heart requires gradual changes

MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ, V3 [IM#12][im12b10.txt]3925

Affection is catching All babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and soft And I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then be grown up He Would Have Been Forty Now How many things have not people been proud of I am not wandering through life, I am marching on I do not accept the hypothesis of a world made for us I would give two summers for a single autumn In his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your own It (science) dreams, too; it supposes Learned to love others by embracing their own children Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded Man is but one of the links of an immense chain Recollection of past dangers to increase the present joy Respect him so that he may respect you Shelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courage The future promises, it is the present that pays The future that is rent away The recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetime Their love requires a return Ties that unite children to parents are unloosed Ties which unite parents to children are broken To love is a great deal--To know how to love is everything We are simple to this degree, that we do not think we are When time has softened your grief

THE ENTIRE MM. AND BEBE BY GUSTAVE DROZ [IM#13][im13b10.txt]3926

A ripe husband, ready to fall from the tree Affection is catching All babies are round, yielding, weak, timid, and soft And I shall say 'damn it,' for I shall then be grown up Answer "No," but with a little kiss which means "Yes" As regards love, intention and deed are the same But she thinks she is affording you pleasure Clumsily, blew his nose, to the great relief of his two arms Do not seek too much Emotion when one does not share it First impression is based upon a number of trifles He Would Have Been Forty Now Hearty laughter which men affect to assist digestion How many things have not people been proud of How rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawers Husband who loves you and eats off the same plate is better I would give two summers for a single autumn I do not accept the hypothesis of a world made for us I came here for that express purpose I am not wandering through life, I am marching on Ignorant of everything, undesirous of learning anything In his future arrange laurels for a little crown for your own It (science) dreams, too; it supposes It is silly to blush under certain circumstances Learned to love others by embracing their own children Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded Love in marriage is, as a rule, too much at his ease Man is but one of the links of an immense chain Rather do not give--make yourself sought after Reckon yourself happy if in your husband you find a lover Recollection of past dangers to increase the present joy Respect him so that he may respect you Shelter himself in the arms of the weak and recover courage Sometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the past The heart requires gradual changes The future that is rent away The recollection of that moment lasts for a lifetime The future promises, it is the present that pays Their love requires a return There are pious falsehoods which the Church excuses Ties that unite children to parents are unloosed Ties which unite parents to children are broken To be able to smoke a cigar without being sick To love is a great deal--To know how to love is everything We are simple to this degree, that we do not think we are When time has softened your grief Why mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap

PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE

PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V1 [IM#14][im14b10.txt]3927

A man's life belongs to his duty, and not to his happiness All defeats have their geneses Foreigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves One of those beings who die, as they have lived, children Playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men Superstition which forbids one to proclaim his happiness The Hungarian was created on horseback There were too many discussions, and not enough action Would not be astonished at anything You suffer? Is fate so just as that

PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V2 [IM#15][im15b10.txt]3928

Life is a tempest Nervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despair No answer to make to one who has no right to question me Nothing ever astonishes me Poverty brings wrinkles

PRINCE ZILAH, BY JULES CLARETIE, V3 [IM#16][im16b10.txt]3929

An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers At every step the reality splashes you with mud Bullets are not necessarily on the side of the right Does one ever forget? History is written, not made. I might forgive," said Andras; "but I could not forget If well-informed people are to be believe Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing Let the dead past bury its dead! Man who expects nothing of life except its ending Not only his last love, but his only love Pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterday Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony Taken the times as they are Unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob What matters it how much we suffer Why should I read the newspapers? Willingly seek a new sorrow

THE ENTIRE PRINCE ZILAH BY JULES CLARETIE [IM#17][im17b10.txt]3930ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

A man's life belongs to his duty, and not to his happiness All defeats have their geneses An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers At every step the reality splashes you with mud Bullets are not necessarily on the side of the right Does one ever forget? Foreigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves History is written, not made. I might forgive," said Andras; "but I could not forget If well-informed people are to be believe Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing Let the dead past bury its dead! Life is a tempest Man who expects nothing of life except its ending Nervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despair No answer to make to one who has no right to question me Not only his last love, but his only love Nothing ever astonishes me One of those beings who die, as they have lived, children Pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterday Playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men Poverty brings wrinkles Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony Superstition which forbids one to proclaim his happiness Taken the times as they are The Hungarian was created on horseback There were too many discussions, and not enough action Unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob What matters it how much we suffer Why should I read the newspapers? Willingly seek a new sorrow Would not be astonished at anything You suffer? Is fate so just as that

ZEBILINE BY PHILLIPE DE MASA

ZEBILINE BY PHILLIPE DE MASA, V1 [IM#18][im18b10.txt]3931

Life goes on, and that is less gay than the stories Men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise

ZEBILINE BY PHILLIPE DE MASA, V2 [IM#19][im19b10.txt]3932

Ambiguity has no place, nor has compromise But if this is our supreme farewell, do not tell me so! Chain so light yesterday, so heavy to-day Every man is his own master in his choice of liaisons If I do not give all I give nothing Indulgence of which they stand in need themselves Ostensibly you sit at the feast without paying the cost Paris has become like a little country town in its gossip The night brings counsel You are in a conquered country, which is still more dangerous

ZEBILINE BY PHILLIPE DE MASA, V3 [IM#20][im20b10.txt]3933

All that was illogical in our social code Only a man, wavering and changeable Their Christian charity did not extend so far as that There are mountains that we never climb but once

THE ENTIRE ZEBILINE BY PHILLIPE DE MASA [IM#21][im21b10.txt]3934

All that was illogical in our social code Ambiguity has no place, nor has compromise But if this is our supreme farewell, do not tell me so! Chain so light yesterday, so heavy to-day Every man is his own master in his choice of liaisons If I do not give all I give nothing Indulgence of which they stand in need themselves Life goes on, and that is less gay than the stories Men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise Only a man, wavering and changeable Ostensibly you sit at the feast without paying the cost Paris has become like a little country town in its gossip The night brings counsel Their Christian charity did not extend so far as that There are mountains that we never climb but once You are in a conquered country, which is still more dangerous

A WOODLAND QUEEN, BY ANDRE THEURIET

A WOODLAND QUEEN, BY ANDRE THEURIET, V1 [IM#22][im22b10.txt]3935

Amusements they offered were either wearisome or repugnant Dreaded the monotonous regularity of conjugal life Fawning duplicity Had not been spoiled by Fortune's gifts Hypocritical grievances I am not in the habit of consulting the law It does not mend matters to give way like that Opposing his orders with steady, irritating inertia There are some men who never have had any childhood To make a will is to put one foot into the grave Toast and white wine (for breakfast) Vague hope came over him that all would come right

A WOODLAND QUEEN, BY ANDRE THEURIET, V2 [IM#23][im23b10.txt]3936

I measure others by myself Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence Others found delight in the most ordinary amusements Sensitiveness and disposition to self-blame Women: they are more bitter than death Yield to their customs, and not pooh-pooh their amusements You must be pleased with yourself--that is more essential

A WOODLAND QUEEN, BY ANDRE THEURIET, V3 [IM#24][im24b10.txt]3937

Accustomed to hide what I think Consoled himself with one of the pious commonplaces How small a space man occupies on the earth More disposed to discover evil than good Nature's cold indifference to our sufferings Never is perfect happiness our lot Plead the lie to get at the truth The ease with which he is forgotten Those who have outlived their illusions Timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day Vexed, act in direct contradiction to their own wishes You have considerable patience for a lover

ENTIRE A WOODLAND QUEEN, BY ANDRE THEURIET [IM#25][im25b10.txt]3938

Accustomed to hide what I think Amusements they offered were either wearisome or repugnant Consoled himself with one of the pious commonplaces Dreaded the monotonous regularity of conjugal life Fawning duplicity Had not been spoiled by Fortune's gifts How small a space man occupies on the earth Hypocritical grievances I am not in the habit of consulting the law I measure others by myself It does not mend matters to give way like that Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence More disposed to discover evil than good Nature's cold indifference to our sufferings Never is perfect happiness our lot Opposing his orders with steady, irritating inertia Others found delight in the most ordinary amusements Plead the lie to get at the truth Sensitiveness and disposition to self-blame The ease with which he is forgotten There are some men who never have had any childhood Those who have outlived their illusions Timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day To make a will is to put one foot into the grave Toast and white wine (for breakfast) Vague hope came over him that all would come right Vexed, act in direct contradiction to their own wishes Women: they are more bitter than death Yield to their customs, and not pooh-pooh their amusements You have considerable patience for a lover You must be pleased with yourself--that is more essential

CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET

CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET, V1 [IM#26][im26b10.txt]3939

A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible Accustomed to call its disguise virtue All that is not life, it is the noise of life Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child Do they think they have invented what they see Force itself, that mistress of the world Galileo struck the earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing He lives only in the body Human weakness seeks association I boasted of being worse than I really was I can not love her, I can not love another I do not intend either to boast or abase myself Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity In what do you believe? Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness Is he a dwarf or a giant Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity Perfection does not exist Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope St. Augustine Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done You turn the leaves of dead books Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions

CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET, V2 [IM#27][im27b10.txt]3940

Adieu, my son, I love you and I die All philosophy is akin to atheism And when love is sure of itself and knows response Can any one prevent a gossip Each one knows what the other is about to say Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen Happiness of being pursued He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow I neither love nor esteem sadness It is a pity that you must seek pastimes Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation She pretended to hope for the best Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me There are two different men in you We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum What human word will ever express thy slightest caress What you take for love is nothing more than desire

CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET, V3 [IM#28][im28b10.txt]3941

Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent Cold silence, that negative force Contrive to use proud disdain as a shield Fool who destroys his own happiness Funeral processions are no longer permitted How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment Is it not enough to have lived? Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes Reading the Memoirs of Constant Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness Speak to me of your love, she said, "not of your grief Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it Suspicions that are ever born anew "Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle Your great weapon is silence

ENTIRE CHILD OF A CENTURY, ALFRED DE MUSSET [IM#29][im29b10.txt]3942

A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible Accustomed to call its disguise virtue Adieu, my son, I love you and I die All philosophy is akin to atheism All that is not life, it is the noise of life And when love is sure of itself and knows response Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil Can any one prevent a gossip Cold silence, that negative force Contrive to use proud disdain as a shield Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child Do they think they have invented what they see Each one knows what the other is about to say Fool who destroys his own happiness Force itself, that mistress of the world Funeral processions are no longer permitted Galileo struck the earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing Happiness of being pursued He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow He lives only in the body How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more Human weakness seeks association I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment I can not love her, I can not love another I boasted of being worse than I really was I neither love nor esteem sadness I do not intend either to boast or abase myself Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity In what do you believe? Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness Is he a dwarf or a giant Is it not enough to have lived? It is a pity that you must seek pastimes Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity Perfection does not exist Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation Reading the Memoirs of Constant Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope She pretended to hope for the best Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness Speak to me of your love, she said, "not of your grief St. Augustine Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it Suspicions that are ever born anew Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me There are two different men in you Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night "Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love" We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum What you take for love is nothing more than desire What human word will ever express thy slightest caress When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle You turn the leaves of dead books Your great weapon is silence Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions

MONSIEUR DE CAMORS BY OCTAVE FEUILLET

MONSIEUR DE CAMORS BY OCTAVE FEUILLET, V1 [IM#30][im30b10.txt]3943