night, is so great."[6]

Barring the disappearance of this four-legged police which at one time
devoured M. du Mollet, the existence of which is confirmed by a
contemporaneous text, the exterior of things has changed but little, no
doubt, and even the civilized people living in Saint-Malo admit that it
is very much behind the times.

The only picture we noticed in the church is a large canvas that
represents the battle of Lepante and is dedicated to Notre-Dame des
Victoires, who can be seen floating above the clouds. In the foreground,
all Christianity, together with crowned kings and princesses, is
kneeling. The two armies can be seen in the background. The Turks are
being hurled into the sea and the Christians stretch their arms towards
heaven.

The church is ugly, has no ornamentation, and looks almost like a
Protestant house of worship. I noticed very few votive offerings, a fact
that struck me as being rather peculiar in this place of sea perils.
There are no flowers nor candles in the chapels, no bleeding hearts nor
bedecked Virgin, nothing, in fact, of all that which causes M. Michelet
to wax indignant.

Opposite the ramparts, at a stone's throw from the city, rises the
little island of Grand-Bay. There, can be found the tomb of
Chateaubriand; that white spot cut in the rock is the place he has
designated for his body.

We went there one evening when the tide was low and the sun setting in
the west. The water was still trickling over the sand. At the foot of
the island, the dripping sea-weed spread out like the hair of antique
women over a tomb.

The island is deserted; sparse grass grows in spots, mingled here and
there with tufts of purple flowers and nettles. On the summit is a
dilapidated casemate, with a courtyard enclosed by crumbling walls.
Beneath this ruin, and half-way up the hill, is a space about ten feet
square, in the middle of which rises a granite slab surmounted by a
Latin cross. The tomb comprises three pieces: one for the socle, one for
the slab, and another for the cross.

Chateaubriand will rest beneath it, with his head turned towards the
sea; in this grave, built on a rock, his immortality will be like his
life--deserted and surrounded by tempests. The centuries and the
breakers will murmur a long time around his great memory; the breakers
will dash against his tomb during storms, or on summer mornings, when
the white sails unfold and the swallow arrives from across the seas;
the