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The Gobelins wove seventy-two sets after this beautiful model which had made Lebrun's début as an artist. Foucquet had given him a more pretentious work; it was to complete a suite, the History of Constantine, after Raphael. Rubens had given a fresh flush of popularity to this subject, which again became the mode. The History of Meleager was begun at Vaux and finished at the Gobelins.
Christian had spent most of the morning in the little cabin smoking Captain Lebrun's reserve pipe, and seeking to establish order among the accounts of the ship. The accounts were the bete noire of the old sailor's existence. Upon his own confession he "wasn't no arithmetician," and Christian found, upon inspecting his accounts, no cause to contradict this ambiguous statement.
It had never occurred to her that the man whom she reverenced above all things human or divine, and whose exalted ideal of feminine perfection soared as far above her as the angels in Lebrun's "Stoning of St.
The witty Prince de Ligne, the handsome Comte de Vaudreuil, the clever M. de Boufflers, and his step-son, M. de Sabran, with such men as Diderot, d'Alembert, Marmontel, and Laharpe, were the original habitués of Mme. Lebrun's drawing-room.
The proof of this was that only seventy-nine tones were discoverable when the Gobelins factory in recent years examined this hanging for the purposes of reproducing it. Lebrun's task in this series seems to us far more simple in point of picturesqueness than it did to him, for the affairs of the time were those depicted.
She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun's room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. She sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done.
The calm eye and the smooth play of an obvious professional in a linen suit kept him for a moment at one table, looking on; then he went to the games, and after changing the gold which Jack Landis had given as alms so silver dollars, he lost it with precision upon the wheel. He went on, from table to table, from group to group. In Lebrun's his clothes were not noticed.
Pay and stay in Lebrun's!" The command brought an immediate protest. A big fellow stepped from the bar, his sombrero pushed to the back of his head, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow away from vast hairy forearms. One of his long arms swept out and brought Donnegan to the bar. "I ain't no prophet," declared the giant, "but I can spot a man that's dry. What'll you have, bud?"
Madame de Maintenon had thrust her leading nose between the doors of the factory and had scented outraged modesty in the reproduction there of the tapestries woven from models of Raphael, Giulio Romano and the classicists, cartoons in great favour after the hampering of Lebrun's imagination. The naked gods from Olympus must be clothed, said this pious and modest lady.
I, to whom all such titles are absolutely indifferent, I receive with sincere pleasure all who make themselves agreeable." The apostrophe apparently hit home, for David never returned to Mme. Lebrun's house, and was no well-wisher of hers in later times.
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