On the opposite side of the river, a little to the right, stands the ancient Château de Clisson, celebrated in the modern as well as the ancient history of Bretagne. Its lofty turrets, and decaying bastions, extend a considerable distance along the shore of the Sèvres, recalling to mind the ancient days of chivalry, when bravery, love, and religion, were so singularly blended together, and gave a romantic half-polished manner to the greatest barbarians. In later times it became the scene of events which no one can contemplate without the deepest interest. In viewing this magnificent ruin, it is impossible not to regret that a place so frequently the theatre of noble achievements, inhabited by one of the greatest men that France has produced, François I. Connétable de Clisson,[9] father to Anne of Bretagne, should have been so recently the scene of such savage horrors and bloodshed! Now, all is silence and solitude: and amidst the noble ruins which were once decorated with banners, and the hard-earned trophies of victory,--where high-born knights and splendid dames mingled in mirth and festivity to the echoes of the minstrels, singing lays of love or battle,--are now only to be seen and heard the birds of prey, hovering over a solitary tree, planted to mark the spot where a deed was committed which has not often its parallel in the darkest histories of the most ferocious nations. [Footnote 9: In the "Histoire Généalogique de France", tom. vi. is an account of the Constable's death. "The Duke of Orleans, brother to the king, was very fond of a Jewess, whom he privately visited. Having some reason to suspect that Peter de Craon, Lord of Sablé and de la Ferté-Bernard, his chamberlain and favourite, had joked with the Duchess of Orleans upon his intrigue, he turned him out of his house with infamy. Craon imputed his disgrace partly to the Constable of Clisson. On the night of the 13th June, having waited for him at the corner of the street _Coulture Ste. Catherine_, and finding he had but little company with him, he fell upon him at the head of a score of ruffians. Clisson defended himself for some time without any other weapon than a small cutlass; but after receiving three wounds, fell from his horse, and pitched against a door, which flew open. The report of this assassination reached the king's ears just as he was stepping into bed. He put on a great coat and his shoes, and repaired to the place where he was informed his constable had been killed. He found him in a baker's shop, wallowing in his blood. After his wounds were examined, "Constable, (said he to him), nothing was or ever will he so severely punished". It was given out that Clisson made his will the next day, and there was a mighty outcry about the sum of 1,700,000 livres, which it amounted to. It should be observed, that during twenty-five years that he was in the service of France, he had sought for and beaten the English every where; that he gained the famous