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Updated: May 20, 2025
Now that those bonds have fallen entirely from me, and I am back in my southern home whether for good or for evil rests upon the lap of the high gods I have been able unexpectedly to resume contact with Dawson and to bring this, discursive book to some kind of a conclusion. It cannot really end so long as Dawson and Froissart and Madame Gilbert live and remain in friendly association with me.
Froissart alludes to the fact that in the battle of Rosebeque, in 1382, the hammering on the helmets made a noise which was equal to that of all the armourers of Paris and Brussels working together. And yet the strength needed to sport such accoutrements seems to have been supplied.
Of Tarbes, you may read in the pages of Froissart or, if you prefer a later authority, in those of Dumas, 'Trois Mousquetaires; for this is the native land of the immortal Ulysses of Gascony, the Chevalier d'Artagnan.
"Your time will pass slowly in your old tower, poor brother," continued my father, "with only your little girl for a companion." "And the past!" said my uncle; "the past, that mighty world " "Do you still read your old books of chivalry, Froissart and the Chronicles, Palmerin of England, and Amadis of Gaul?"
It was a question who would engage himself in the most incredible pranks; who would commit the most daring folly! They tell us afterward of the beautiful passages of arms, the grand feats performed, and the inimitable Froissart is the most charming of all these narrators, who make their readers as chivalrous as themselves.
But when Don Pedro had reached Bordeaux, and had told the Prince of Wales that, if he obtained the support of England, he would make the prince's eldest son, Edward, king of Galicia, and share amongst the prince's warriors the treasure he had left in Castile, so well concealed that he alone knew where, "the knights of the Prince of Wales," says Froissart, "gave ready heed to his words, for English and Gascons are by nature covetous."
We shall see." Mr. Francis Charles Boland, propped up on one elbow, sprawled upon a rug spread upon the grass under a giant willow tree at Mitchell House, deep in the Chronicles of Sir John Froissart. Mr. Ferdinand Sedgwick tip-toed unheard across the velvet sward. He prodded Frances Charles with his toe. "Ouch!" said Francis Charles. "You'll catch your death of cold. Get up!
Earlier prose-writers Joinville, Froissart, Rabelais, Montaigne had been in turns charming, or picturesque, or delicate, or overflowing with vitality; but none had struck upon the really characteristically French note. They lacked form, and those fine qualities of strength and clarity which form alone can give.
From its snowy aspect, the gauntleted ghost of the Southern Seas has been denominated the White Squall. Nor, in some historic instances, has the art of human malice omitted so potent an auxiliary. How wildly it heightens the effect of that passage in Froissart, when, masked in the snowy symbol of their faction, the desperate White Hoods of Ghent murder their bailiff in the market-place!
I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid. "My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!" "D-don't you you know the old prophecy?" stammered Fortin; "Froissart quotes it from Jacques Sorgue: "'When the Black Priest rises from the dead, St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed; When the Black Priest rises from his grave, May the good God St. Gildas save!"
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