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National Geographic : 1936 May
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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE than anywhere Else. Ie had felt that when he was a fisherman. Then Tombe laine became a S, Christian hold ing, and a tiny abbey was built SAn there with a cell for a lonely monk, an offshoot of the great Abbey on the e Mount. Did Madame remember the story of Fouquet, the ambition mad Finance Minister of Louis XIV, who in curred his King's displeasure by growing too ex travagant and powerful? He built a chateau on Tombelaine, and he should have been for given the spend thrift magnifi cence of his cha teau at Vaux, for no man is worthy of prison who Photograph by F. S. Lincoln would seek to be FETCHING WATER, ONE SEES WHAT'S DOING ON THE STREET alone with God on the rock of It may not be as convenient as having water piped to the house, but at least Tombelaine. there is no meter on this public hydrant. The little girl's foaming pitcher is familiar to travelers who have stopped at small European inns where running The King had water is not available. even that vestige destroyed, and big rock which seemed to lie floating on a Tombelaine is now only a rock which young sea of quicksilver, halfway between Mont sight-seers gain by defying the quicksands. St. Michel and the village of Genets, on the It was a bright hour of the morning when Norman shore. It looked like a miniature old Cartier decoyed me up the only street Gibraltar or a couchant lion (page 639). of the Mount to show me a house. Had it a history, that bare lump? "Look, there is the house of Tiphaine My guide who was not a guide looked Raguenel. There she lived with Bertrand down like a mother on the passive baby, and du Guesclin, a fine man, though only a then with real pleasure talked of the lesser Breton and not a Norman." rock. When Mont St. Michel was called That to me typified romance, the life of Mons Tumba, the smaller islet was called that splendid 14th century warrior calmed Tombelaine; both were sea tombs of an- for a while by his marriage with his ideal, cient peoples. He liked the idea, he said; the rare lady, Tiphaine Raguenel. one was nearer God on calm, wide waters Cartier would not let this end the stroll. 652
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