Ah! my little cats, I know you! for, after all, women are just what we men are.

Twenty-eight years old, virtuous, and living here in the rue Duphot!--a rare piece of luck and worth cultivating," thought the elderly butterfly as he fluttered down the staircase.
"Good heavens! that man, without his glasses, must look funny enough in a dressing-gown!" thought Celestine, "but the harpoon is in his back and he'll tow me where I want to go; I am sure now of that invitation.

He has played his part in my comedy." When, at five o'clock in the afternoon, Rabourdin came home to dress for dinner, his wife presided at his toilet and presently laid before him the fatal memorandum which, like the slipper in the Arabian Nights, the luckless man was fated to meet at every turn.
"Who gave you that ?" he asked, thunderstruck.
"Monsieur des Lupeaulx." "So he has been here!" cried Rabourdin, with a look which would certainly have made a guilty woman turn pale, but which Celestine received with unruffled brow and a laughing eye.
"And he is coming back to dinner," she said.

"Why that startled air ?" "My dear," replied Rabourdin, "I have mortally offended des Lupeaulx; such men never forgive, and yet he fawns upon me! Do you think I don't see why ?" "The man seems to me," she said, "to have good taste; you can't expect me to blame him.

I really don't know anything more flattering to a woman than to please a worn-out palate.