Imagining that I was "seated upon the mole" or at rest in the "boudoir" of which Baudelaire speaks I asked myself whether his "Sun's rays upon the sea" were not—a very different thing from the evening ray, simple and superficial as the wavering stroke of a golden pencil—just what at that moment was scorching the sea topaz-brown, fermenting it, turning it pale and milky like foaming beer, like milk, while now and then there hovered over it great blue shadows which some god seemed, for his pastime, to be shifting to and fro by moving a mirror in the sky.