They let go the reefs; the sails fall down again. The sailors and passengers of the two ships watch each other flee from sight, without a word: one crew goes to seek the sun of Asia, the other the sun of Europe, both of which will see them die. Time carries off and separates travellers on earth even more rapidly than the wind carries them off and separates them on the ocean; they make a sign to each other at a distance: "God speed you, and a prosperous journey!" The common port is Eternity. And what if the vessel encountered were that of Cook[449] or La Pérouse? * The boatswain of my Saint-Malo ship was an old super-cargo called Pierre Villeneuve, whose very name pleased me, because of the good Villeneuve of my childhood. He had served in India, under the Bailli de Suffren, and in America under the Comte d'Estaing; he had been present at a number of engagements. Leaning against the bow of the ship, near the bowsprit, like a veteran seated under the vine-arbour of his little garden in the moat of the Invalides, Pierre, chewing a plug of tobacco which filled out his cheek like a swelling, described to me the clearing of the decks, the effect of the gun-fire below decks, the damage done by the cannon-balls in ricochetting against the gun-carriages, the guns, the timber-work. I made him talk of the Indians, the negroes, the planters. I asked him how the people were dressed, how the trees were shaped, what was the colour of the earth and sky, the taste of the fruits; whether pine-apples were better than peaches, palm-trees finer than oaks. He explained all this by means of comparisons taken from things I knew: the palm-tree was a large cabbage; the robe worn by a Hindoo was like my grandmother's; the camels were like a humpbacked donkey; all the peoples of the East, and notably the Chinese, were cowards and robbers. Villeneuve came from Brittany, and we never failed to end with praises of the incomparable beauty of our native country. The bell interrupted our conversations; it struck the watches, the time for dressing, for the roll-call, for meals. In the morning, at a signal, the crew mustered on deck, stripped off their blue shirts, and put on others which were drying in the shrouds. The discarded shirts were forthwith washed in tubs in which this school of seals also soaped their brown faces and tarred paws. At the mid-day and evening meals, the sailors, seated in a circle around the mess-platters, one after the other, regularly and without any attempt at fraud, dipped their tin spoons into the soup which splashed to the roll of the ship. Those who were not hungry sold their ration of biscuit or salt junk to their messmates for a screw of tobacco. The passengers took their meals in the captain's room. In fine weather, a sail was spread over the stern of the vessel, and we dined in sight of a blue sea, flecked here and there with white marks where it had been struck by the breeze.