The centuries and the breakers will murmur a long time around his great memory; the breakers will dash against his tomb during storms, or on summer mornings, when the white sails unfold and the swallow arrives from across the seas; they will bring him the melancholy voluptuousness of far-away horizons and the caressing touch of the sea-breeze.

And while time passes and the waves of his native strand swing back and forth between his cradle and his grave, the great heart of Rene, grown cold, will slowly crumble to dust to the eternal rhythm of this never-ceasing music.
We walked around the tomb and touched it, and looked at it as if it contained its future host, and sat down beside it on the ground.
The sky was pink, the sea was calm, and there was a lull in the breeze.
Not a ripple broke the motionless surface of ocean on which the setting sun shed its golden light.

Blue near the coast and mingled with the evening mist, the sea was scarlet everywhere else and deepened into a dark red line on the horizon.

The sun had no rays left; they had fallen from its face and drowned their brilliancy in the water, on which they seemed to float.

The red disc set slowly, robbing the sky of the pink tinge it had diffused over it, and while both the sun and the delicate color were wearing away, the pale blue shades of night crept over the heavens.