She wanted to throw her arms round him, to hold him with all her strength, to struggle, to cling to him when he was going away, if needs be to let herself be dragged down the staircase, and even into the street. . . . But no, something held her bound where she stood: first the knowledge that all that she might do could be of no avail, and then a sense of dignity, there, where their son lay asleep. . . . And she remained against the wall, without a movement. He had placed two hundred francs in large silver pieces on the table near him. They represented the payment that had been made to him in advance, all that remained of it, after he had paid for his clothes. He looked at her now very thoughtfully, very kindly, and with his woollen sleeve brushed off some tears that were rolling down his cheeks. But he had nothing more to say to her. And now the last minute had come and all was over. He bent again for a last time over his little son, then straightened himself and got up to go. CHAPTER LXXXII 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. Now he can distinguish the breakers and the coral quite clearly, and he leans over a little in the air, and calls out to those below: "Reefs on the port bow."