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Updated: May 31, 2025
The middle ages bequeathed to French literature four prose-writers whom we cannot hesitate to call great historians: Villehardouin, Joinville, Froissart, and Commynes.
As I fell I could see the concern on the faces of Lanfranc and Bohemond and the glut of satisfaction in the face of de Villehardouin as he pressed me. I was falling, but I never reached the grass.
Unlike Villehardouin, whose chronicle shows hardly a trace of personal feeling, Joinville speaks of himself unceasingly, and has impressed his work indelibly with the mark of his own individuality.
Each nodded in turn and Pasquini and I prepared to step aside. "Since you are in haste," Henry Bohemond proposed to me, "and since there are three of them and three of us, why not settle it at the one time?" "Yes, yes," was Lanfranc's eager cry. "Do you take de Goncourt. De Villehardouin for mine." But I waved my good friends back. "They are here by command," I explained.
De Goncourt was to him, but he waved de Goncourt to attend on me. Not so swiftly as Fortini did Pasquini pass. He coughed and spat, and, helped by de Villehardouin, propped his elbow under him, rested his head on hand, and coughed and spat again. "A pleasant journey, Pasquini," I laughed to him in my red anger.
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