I remember a circumstance of the kind which happened under my own eyes; but ere I begin to tell it or any other story, let me premise that, as most of my tales are true tales, and as many of the people who figure in them are still acting their part upon life's busy stage, I must bargain for one concealment throughout, and take care not to give the name of the particular person who played this or that part on this or that occasion. Indeed, most frequently, I shall not even put down, with any degree of accuracy, the name of the town or place in which the various events occurred, for this very simple reason; that, making no pretensions to novelty or invention, and all that I relate being simple matter of fact, well known in the place where it occurred, the anecdotes I relate would be easily attached to those who were the principal actors therein.
Under this discreet view of the case, then, the distinctive appellation of the town, city, or burgh, in which the following circumstances occurred, shall be as tightly sealed up in silent secrecy as a bottle of Hervey's sauce, Ball's patent mustard, or any other savoury thing which it is difficult to open. However, though I do not give the name, I may at least give the description, which, indeed, is necessary to the right understanding of my story.
In a part of France, not a hundred miles from the fine port of St. Malo, stands a town containing some eight thousand inhabitants; anciently a fortified place of considerable strength. It is pitched on the pinnacle of a high hill, with its antique battlements, covered with time's livery, the green ivy and the yellow lichen, still frowning over the peaceful valleys around, and crowning the rocky ridge which confines the river Rance. That valley of the Rance is as lovely as any in Europe; now spreading out for miles, it offers a wide basin for the river, which, extending in proportion; looks like a broad lake; now contracting to a narrow gorge, it confines the stream between gigantic rocks that rise abruptly from its edge, and sombre woods that dip their very branches in its waters. But it is where the town, which I have just mentioned, first bursts upon the sight, that the scenery is peculiarly picturesque. Winding through a deep defile of rocks, which cut off the neighbouring view and throw a dark shadow over the river, the stream suddenly turns a projecting point of its shores, and a landscape of unequalled beauty opens on the sight. Rich wooded valleys, with soft green slopy sides, broken with crags, and diversified with hamlets, are seen diverging in every direction, with the Rance winding forward in the midst of them; while high in air, lording it over all around, rises the stately rock on which the town is placed, with wall and battlement and tower hanging over its extreme verge. In front, and apparently immediately under the town, though in reality at about two miles distant from it, lies a high craggy piece of ground, which the water would completely encircle were it not for a narrow sort of isthmus which joins it to its parent chain of hills. This is called the _Courbúre_, from the turn which the river makes round it; and I notice it more particularly from being the exact scene of my story's catastrophe.