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He called on the famous actors and vaudeville artists when they came to town, gave them cigars, addressed them by their first names, and sometimes succeeded in bringing them to the Boosters' lunches to give The Boys a Free Entertainment. He was a large man with hair en brosse, and he knew the latest jokes, but he played poker close to the chest.
I saw again and again that kind of face which a foolish Briton is accustomed to regard as absurd a military, musketeer profile, immense moustaches and imperial, and hair en brosse. Yet indeed there was nothing absurd. It was terribly moving, and a lump rose in my throat, as I watched such a sanguine bristling face as one of these, all alight with passion and adoration.
Mary of Medicis, relict of Henry IV, having purchased of the Duke of Luxembourg his hotel and its dependencies, erected on their site this palace. It was built in 1616, under the direction of JACQUES DE BROSSE, on the plan of the Pitti palace at Florence. Next to the Louvre, the Luxembourg is the most spacious palace in Paris.
I hoped I looked less vulgar than he in contrast with Soames. I was sure he was not an Englishman, but what WAS his nationality? Though his jet-black hair was en brosse, I did not think he was French. To Berthe, who waited on him, he spoke French fluently, but with a hardly native idiom and accent.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the King gaily; "La Brosse is an old sharper who is anxious to obtain some of your money; and you are a young fool to believe him. My days are numbered before God."
Père de La Brosse had said while curé at Isle Verte, "If I die elsewhere than here, you will have certain knowledge of the fact at the moment of my death." The legend, the rather obscure motive of which is to emphasize the saintly virtues of Père de La Brosse, is believed even to this day by many simple people, hundreds of whom know it by heart. But some are skeptical.
The slim girl in black, and the handsome youth, his golden hair standing up straight, en brosse, round his open brow and laughing eyes, seemed, as dancers, made for each other. They were absorbed in the poetry of concerted movement, the rhythm of lilting sound. "Mountebank!" said Falloden to Meyrick, contemptuously, as the couple passed.
He was a guest, just in from Paris, where he had been established twenty years, one of the five men in art whom one counted on the fingers when the word genius was pronounced. Mentally and physically a German, he spoke English with a French accent. His hair was cropped en brosse, and in his brown Japanese face only the eyes, staccato, furtive, and drunk with curiosity, could be seen.
“But there are no hooks there,” said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously at his father. “Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That’s how a Frenchman described hell: ‘J’ai bu l’ombre d’un cocher qui avec l’ombre d’une brosse frottait l’ombre d’une carrosse.’ How do you know there are no hooks, darling? When you’ve lived with the monks you’ll sing a different tune.
What has time, what have men done with these marvels? What have they given us in return for all this Gallic history, for all this Gothic art? The heavy flattened arches of M. de Brosse, that awkward architect of the Saint-Gervais portal. So much for art; and, as for history, we have the gossiping reminiscences of the great pillar, still ringing with the tattle of the Patru. It is not much.
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