The crossing had been calm as a lake.  Even H.C., who would sooner brave the tortures of a Spanish Inquisition than the ocean in its angry moods, and who has occasionally landed after a rough passage in an expiring condition:  even H.C. was impatient to land and break his fast at the liberal table of the Hotel de France—­very liberal in comparison with the Hotel Franklin.  We had once dined at the table d’hote of the Franklin, and found it a veritable Barmecide’s feast, from which we got up far more hungry than we had sat down; a display so mean that we soon ceased to wonder that only two others graced the board with ourselves, and they, though Frenchmen, strangers to the place.  The Hotel de France was very different from this; if it left something to be desired in the way of refinement, it erred on the side of abundance.

Therefore, on landing this morning, we gave our lighter baggage in charge of the porter of the hotel, who knew us well, and according to his wont, gave us a friendly greeting.  “Monsieur visite encore St. Malo,” said he, “et nous apporte le beau temps.  Soyez le bienvenu!” This was not in the least familiar—­from a Frenchman.

[Illustration:  ST. MALO.]

We went on to the custom-house, and as we had nothing to declare the inspection was soon over.  H.C. had left all his tea and cigars behind him at the Waterloo Station, in a small hand-bag which he had put down for a moment to record a sudden fine phrenzy of poetical inspiration.  Besides tea and cigars, the bag contained a copy of his beloved “Love Lyrics,” without which he never travels, and a bunch of lilies of the valley, given him at the moment of leaving home by Lady Maria; an amiable but aesthetical aunt, who lives on crystallised violets, and spends her time in endeavouring to convert all the young men of her acquaintance who go in for muscular Christianity to her aesthetical way of thinking.

Leaving the custom-house, we crossed the quay, the old castle in front of us, and passing through the great gateway, immediately found ourselves at the Place Chateaubriand and the Hotel de France.  For the hotel forms part of the building in which Chateaubriand lived.

We had a very short time to devote to St. Malo.  A long journey still lay before us, for we wished to reach Morlaix that night.  There was the choice of taking the train direct, or of crossing by boat to Dinard, and so joining the train from St. Malo, which reached Dinan after a long round.  The latter seemed preferable, since it promised more variety, though shortening our stay at the old town.  But, as Madame wisely remarked, it would give us sufficient time for luncheon, and an extra hour or so in St. Malo could not be very profitably spent.