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 was sleeping. One by one the lights went out
in the windows, and the lighthouses shone red in the darkness, which was
quite blue above us and glittering with myriads of twinkling stars. We
could not see the ocean, but we could hear and smell it, and the
breakers that lashed the walls flung drops of foam over us through the
big apertures of the machicolations.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129