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Updated: May 13, 2025
This courage called out Lucien's courage; he had only newly come into the circle, and shrank with invincible repugnance from speaking of his straits. One morning he went out, manuscript in hand, and reached the Rue du Coq; he would sell The Archer of Charles IX. to Doguereau; but Doguereau was out. Lucien little knew how indulgent great natures can be to the weaknesses of others.
Le Coq d'Or was a reconstitution of what had been, in a now deserted suburban resort, a famous restaurant dedicated to the memory and cult of Rabelais.
A first-rate traveller's trick! Ha! ha! we are the diplomatists of commerce. Famous! As for your prospectus, I'll take charge of that. I've got a friend early childhood Andoche Finot, son of the hat-maker in the Rue du Coq, the old buffer who launched me into travelling on hats.
"But, Captain Holmes, what do you deduce from your observation of the wake of the House-boat? If she's going to Paris, why the change?" "I have two theories," replied the detective. "Which is always safe," said Le Coq. "Always; it doubles your chances of success," acquiesced Holmes. "Anyhow, it gives you a choice, which makes it more interesting.
Vanderlyn was trying to choose a form of words with which he could bid the other farewell; he longed with a miserable longing to be alone, but that first day's ordeal was not yet over. "I can't face dinner here," said Pargeter suddenly, "let's go and dine at that new place, the Coq d'Or." Vanderlyn lacked the energy to say him nay, and they went out, leaving word where they were to be found.
The same interesting phenomenon has been observed at the mouth of the Pascagoula, in the State of Mississippi, and of another river called the "Bayou coq del Inde," on the northern shore of the Gulf of Mexico.
Go and see somebody that buys manuscripts. There is old Doguereau in the Rue du Coq, near the Louvre, he is in the romance line. If you had only spoken sooner, you might have seen Pollet, a competitor of Doguereau and of the publisher in the Wooden Galleries." "I have a volume of poetry " "M. Porchon!" somebody shouted. "Poetry!" Porchon exclaimed angrily.
If you had ever read a truly exciting sea-tale, my dear Le Coq, you would have known that interesting things, and particularly signals of distress, are never seen except to larboard or dead ahead." A murmur of applause greeted this retort, and Le Coq subsided. "The nature of the signal?" demanded Holmes.
There are several old Flemish pictures of golf; do any of them show players in the act of “holing out”? There is said to be such a picture at Neuchâtel. Once upon a time there lived at the hamlet of Coq, near Condé-sur-l’Escaut, a wheelwright called Roger.
He went to his funeral with some golfers from the hamlets of Coq, La Cigogne, and La Queue de l’Ayache. On returning from the cemetery they went to the tavern to drink, as they say, to the memory of the dead, and there they lost themselves in talk about the noble game of golf. When they separated, in the dusk of evening: Boire la cervelle du mort.
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