Existence is so bitter for every one of us! Ought we not to forgive others much, my friend, if we wish to… — Emile Zola

Like those antique monsters whose redoubtable domains were covered with skeletons, she rested her feet on human skulls. She was ringed round with catastrophes.

Foucarmont had twice fought duels, and he was in consequence most politely treated, and admitted into every circle.

The rage for debasing things was inborn in her. It did not suffice her to destroy them, she must soil them too.