And the Celts mourned three barren rocks under a lowering sky, in the heart of a gulf dotted with islets.
—G. FLAUBERT, SALAMMBÔ.
The Coral Sea! At the Antipodes of our old world. Nothing but blue anywhere. Around the ship which proceeds slowly, the infinite blue spreads its perfect circle. The surface shines and glitters under the eternal sun.
Yves is there, alone, carried high in the air in a thing which oscillates slowly; he passes, in his top.
He gazes, with unseeing eyes at the limitless circle; he is as it were dazed with space and light. His expressionless eyes come to rest at hazard, for, everywhere, all is alike.
Everywhere, all is alike. . . . It is the great blind, unconscious splendour of things which men believe have been made for them. Over the surface of the waters pass life-giving breezes which no one breathes; warmth and light are poured out in abundance; all the sources of life are open on the silent solitudes of the sea and fill them with a strange glory.
The surface shines and glitters under the eternal sun. The great blaze of noon falls into the blue desert in a useless and wasted magnificence.
Presently Yves thinks he can discern in the distance a trail less blue, and his attention, which just now wandered idly over the sparkling and tranquil monotony, is concentrated upon it: it is no doubt the sea breaking into foam over the whiteness of coral, breaking on isles unknown, level with the water, which no map has yet shown.
How far away is Brittany—and the green lanes of Toulven—and his little son!
Yves has come out of his dream, and is watching, his hand shading his eyes, that distant trail which still shows white.
He does not look like a deserter, for he is wearing still the blue collar of the navy.