The people of the Mont St. Michel are very poor, and the women and children are compelled to seek some means of earning money as well as the men.  As long as the summer lasts the crowds of pilgrims and tourists, flocking to the wonderful fortress and shrine upon the summit, bring employment and gain to some portion of them; but in the winter there is little to do except when the weather is fine enough to search for shell-fish about the sands, and sell them in the villages of the mainland.  As the tide goes down, bands of women and children follow it out for miles, taking care to retrace their steps before the sea rises again.  From Michel’s cottage on the ramparts the whole plain toward Avranches was visible, and he could hear the busy hum of voices coming to his ear from afar through the quiet air.  But on the western side of the Mont, where the black line of the river crosses the sands, they are more dangerous; and in this direction only the more venturesome seekers go—­boys who love any risk, and widows who are the more anxious to fill their nets because they have no man to help them in getting their daily bread.

The early part of the winter is not cold in Normandy, especially by the sea.  As long as the westerly winds sweep across the Atlantic, the air is soft though damp, with fine mists hanging in it, which shine with rainbow tints in the sunlight.  Sometimes Christmas and the New Year find the air still genial, in spite of the short days and the long rainy nights.  Strong gales may blow, but so long as they do not come from the dry east or frosty north there is no real severity of weather.

It was such a Christmas week that year.  Not one of the women or children had yet been forced to stay away from the sands on account of the cold.  Upon Christmas eve there was a good day, though, a short one, before them, for it was low water about noon, and the high tide would not be in before six.  All the daylight would be theirs.  It was a chance not to be missed, for as the tides grew later in the day their time for fishing would be cut shorter.  Almost every woman and child turned out through the gate with their nets in their hands.  By midday the plain was dotted over by them, and the wintry sun shone pleasantly down, and the quiet rock caught the echo of their voices.  Farther away, out of sight and hearing, the men also were busy, Michel among them, casting nets upon the sea.  As the low sun went down in the southern sky, the scattered groups came home by twos and threes, anxious to bring in their day’s fishing in time for the men to carry them across to the mainland before the Mont should be shut in by the tide.

A busy scene was that in the gateway.

All the town was there; some coming in from the sands, and those who had been left at home with babies or old folks running down from their houses.  There was chaffing and bartering; exchanges agreed upon, and commissions innumerable to be intrusted to the men about to set out for Pontorson, the nearest town.  Michel Lorio was going to sell his own fish, for who would carry it for him?  Yet though he was the first who was ready to start, not a soul charged him with a single commission.  He lingered wistfully and loitered just outside the gateway; but neither man, woman, nor child said, “Michel, bring me what I want from the town.”