shrugs,
everything, in fact, was used to crush this woman, who, judging by the
ferocity these ruffians displayed in their attacks, must have been
pretty, refined, and charming. Our hearts beat indignantly in our
breasts, and if we had taken another meal in Saint-Pol, I am sure that
something would have happened.

CHAPTER X.

SAINT-MALO.

Saint-Malo, which is built right on the ocean and is enclosed by
ramparts, looks like a crown of stones, the gems of which are the
machicolations. The breakers dash against its walls, and when the tide
is low they gently unfurl on the sand. Little rocks covered with
sea-weed dot the beach and look like black spots on its light surface.
The larger ones, which are upright and smooth, support the
fortifications, thus making them appear higher than they really are.

Above this straight line of walls, broken here and there by a tower or
the pointed ogive of a door, rise the roofs of the houses with their
open garret-windows, their gyrating weather-cocks, and their red
chimneys from which issue spirals of bluish smoke that vanishes in the
air.

Around Saint-Malo are a number of little barren islands that have not a
tree nor a blade of grass, but only some old crumbling walls, great
pieces of which are hurled into the sea by each succeeding storm.

On the other side of the bay, opposite the city and connected with dry
land by a long pier, which separates the port from the ocean, is
Saint-Servan, a large, empty, almost deserted locality, which lies
peacefully in a marshy meadow. At the entrance to Saint-Servan rise the
four towers of the Chateau de Solidor, which are connected by curtains
and are perfectly black from top to bottom. These alone are sufficient
compensation for having made that extended circuit on the beach, under
the broiling July sun, among the dock-yards and tar-pots and fires.

A walk around the city, over the ramparts, is one of the finest that can
be taken. Nobody goes there. You can sit down in the embrasures of the
cannons and dangle your feet over the abyss. In front of you lies the
mouth of the Rance, which flows between two green hills, the coast, the
islands, the rocks, and the ocean. The sentinel marches up and down
behind you, and his even footsteps echo on the sonorous stones.

One evening we remained out for a long time. The night was beautiful, a
true summer night, without a moon, but brilliant with stars and perfumed
by the sea-breeze. The city