In one place, between the wall and the city houses, a quantity of
cannon-balls are piled up in a ditch. From that point you can see these
words written on the second floor of one of the dwellings:
"Chateaubriand was born here."
Further on, the wall ends at the foot of a tower called Quiquengrogne;
like its sister, La Generale, it is high, broad, and imposing, and is
swelled in the middle like a hyperbola.
Though they are as good as new and absolutely intact, these towers would
no doubt be improved if they lost some of their battlements in the sea
and if ivy spread its kindly leaves over their tops. Indeed, do not
monuments grow greater through recollection, like men and like passions?
And are they not completed by death?
We entered the castle. The empty courtyard planted with a few sickly
lime-trees was as silent as the courtyard of a monastery. The janitress
went and obtained the keys from the commander. When she returned, she
was accompanied by a pretty little girl who wished to see the strangers.
Her arms were bare and she carried a large bunch of flowers. Her black
curls escaped from beneath her dainty little cap, and the lace on her
pantalettes rubbed against her kid shoes tied around the ankles with
black laces.
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