St. Malo is a curious little city, with its ever apparent past not in the least disturbed by the steamboats and electric trams, which bring visitors to the base of its ancient fortifications and gateways. Among its chief reminders of the past are its proud château, redolent of the memory of the beautiful Duchess Anne, its fine cathedral, its quaint old houses and narrow streets, and its wonderful encircling ramparts.
Not only is St. Malo a city of the past, but it is above all, to-day, a resort, as that elastic term is known which covers any place where tourists congregate for pleasure.
Kiosks, coffee-rooms, and bathing-cabins have taken the place of whatever may have gone before, and to-day, truly, one may be as comfortably up to date—if there is any real comfort in being up to date—as if he were in Budapest, Paris, or San Francisco. St. Malo is considerably more than this; it is the actual, if not the geographical, centre of the whole Emerald Coast.
Ramparts of St. Malo
The praises of the Emerald Coast have been sung by many poets, and pictured by many painters. Jean Richepin, that rare vagabond, comes frequently for his inspiration to St. Jacut-de-la-Mer, and in his “Honest Folk” there are superb descriptions of this entrancing combination of sea and shore, which in all France is not elsewhere equalled, unless it be on the Riviera.
The Emerald Coast must indeed be the paradise for jaded literary workers, when work makes its inroads on their holiday, for it may enable them to accomplish as much as Ferdinand Brunetière admitted during a recent stay at Dinard-St. Énogat: