gh we borrowed sabots to enable us
to wade through the mud, we returned to the inn, and next day reached St.
Malo.

[Illustration: 12. Tomb of Chateaubriand, and View of St. Malo.]

St. Malo stands on a small granite island at the mouth of the Rance,
connected, by a causeway called "Le Sillon," with the mainland. The space
it occupies is so small, that castle, churches, streets, and towers are
all crowded together, and the whole is nearly surrounded by a sea wall,
which makes the town appear as if rising straight out of the ocean.
Towards the sea, the bay is encircled with groups of craggy islets, many
surmounted by forts, bristling up as the tide recedes, in every direction.
Conspicuous among these island rocks is that called the Grand Be, chosen
by Chateaubriand for his last resting-place, as he wished to be buried
near the place of his birth. Singularly enough the name of the island "Be"
signifies a tomb. On his request being granted, Chateaubriand wrote to the
Mayor of St. Malo.

"Enfin, Monsieur, j'aurai un tombeau, et je vous le devrai, ainsi qu'a
mes bienveillants compatriotes. Vous savez, Monsieur, que je ne veux que
quelques pieds de sable, une pierre de rivage sans ornement et sans
inscription, une simple croix de fer, et une petite grille pour empecher
les animaux de me deterrer. La croix dira que l'homme reposant a ses
pieds etait un Chretien; cela suffit a ma memoire."

At low water, the island is accessible on foot. The tomb consists of a
plain stone without inscription, surmounted by a granite cross, and is
surrounded by an iron railing. It is placed on the edge of a rock, and is
the resort of crowds of pilgrims.

"La vaste mer murmure autour de son cercueil."

The Hotel de France is the house where Chateaubriand's family lived, and
the room he occupied is filled with various memorials of him. The
Chateaubriand arms hang upon the wall. They were given by St. Louis to an
ancestor who was wounded and taken prisoner at the battle of Massoura. The
King changed the peacock's plumes, previously borne by the family, to
fleurs de lys on a field gules, with the proud motto "Mon sang teint les
bannieres de France." The tides here rise to between forty and fifty feet
above low-water mark, so that the harbour is dry at low water, and is
crossed on foot to go to St. Servan, the suburb on the opposite side.

We walked round the ramparts and were shown the little gate down which
were sent every