23

“Good morning,” said the little prince.

“Good morning,” said the merchant.

This was a merchant who sold pills that were invented to quench thirst. Just swallow one pill a week, and you will feel no need of anything to drink.

“Why are you selling them?” asked the little prince.

“Because they save time,” said the merchant. “Experts made computations. With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week.”

“And what do I do with those fifty-three minutes?”

“Anything you like.”

“As for me,” said the little prince to himself, “if I have fifty-three minutes, I shall walk toward a spring of fresh water.”

24

It was now the eighth day and I was drinking the last drop of my water.

“Ah,” I said to the little prince, “these memories of yours are very charming; but I cannot repair my plane; I have nothing more to drink. I shall be very happy if I can walk toward a spring of fresh water!”

“My friend the fox—“ the little prince said to me.

“My dear, I have no time to listen about the fox!”

“Why not?”

“Because I am going to die of thirst.”

He did not understand, and he answered me:

“It is good to have a friend, even if one is going to die. I, for instance, am very glad to have a fox as a friend.”

“He does not understand the danger,” I said to myself. “He was never hungry or thirsty. A little sunshine is all he needs.”

But he looked at me steadily, and replied to my thought:

“I am thirsty, too. Let us look for a well.”

It is absurd to look for a well in the immensity of the desert. But nevertheless we started.

We were walking for several hours, in silence. The darkness fell, and the stars appeared. I was like in a dream. I remember the little prince’s last words:

“Then you are thirsty, too?” I demanded.

But he did not reply to my question. He merely said to me:

“Water may also be good for the heart.”

I did not understand this answer, but I said nothing. I knew very well that it was impossible to ask him.

He was tired, so he sat down. I sat down beside him. And, after a little silence, he spoke again:

“The stars are beautiful, because there is a flower that one cannot see.”

I replied, “Yes, that is so.”

“The desert is beautiful,” the little prince added.

And that was true. I love the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams.

“What makes the desert beautiful,” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well.”

I was astonished. When I was a little boy I lived in an old house, and legend told us that a treasure was buried there. It cast an enchantment over that house. My home was hiding a secret in the depths of its heart.

“Yes,” I said to the little prince. “The house, the stars, the desert—what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible!”

“I am glad,” he said, “that you agree with my fox.”

As the little prince began to sleep, I took him in my arms and walked once more. I was deeply moved. It seemed to me that I was carrying a very fragile treasure. In the moonlight I looked at his pale forehead, his closed eyes, his locks of hair that trembled in the wind, and I said to myself: “What I see here is nothing but a shell. What is most important is invisible.”

As his lips opened slightly, I said to myself, again: “The image of the rose shines through him like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep.” And I wanted to protect him.

And, as I walked on, at daybreak, I found the well.

25

“Men,” said the little prince, “set out on their way in express trains, but they do not know what they are looking for. Then they rush about, and get excited, and turn round and round.”

And he added:

“It is not worth the trouble.”

The well that we found was not like the wells of the Sahara. The wells of the Sahara are mere holes in the sand. This one was like a well in a village. But there was no village here.

“It is strange,” I said to the little prince. “Everything is ready: the pulley, the bucket, the rope.”

He laughed, touched the rope. And the pulley moaned, like an old weathervane.

“Do you hear?” said the little prince. “We wakened the well, and it is singing.”

“Leave it to me,” I said. “It is too heavy for you.”

I hoisted the bucket slowly to the edge of the well and set it there. The song of the pulley was still in my ears. The water was trembling.

“I am thirsty for this water,” said the little prince. “Give me some of it to drink.”

I raised the bucket to his lips. He drank, his eyes were closed. This water was indeed different. Its sweetness was born of the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a present.

“The men where you live,” said the little prince, “raise five thousand roses in the same garden—and they do not find in it what they are looking for.”

“They do not find it,” I replied.

“And they can find it in one single rose, or in a little water.”

“Yes, that is true,” I said.

And the little prince added:

“But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart.”

I drank the water. I breathed easily. At sunrise the sand is the colour of honey. And that honey colour was making me happy, too.

“You must keep your promise,” said the little prince, softly, as he s at down beside me once more.

“What promise?”

“You know—a muzzle for my sheep. I am responsible for this flower.”

I took my drawings out of my pocket. The little prince looked them over, and laughed as he said:

“Your baobabs—they look a little like cabbages.”

“Oh!”

I was so proud of my baobabs!

“Your fox—his ears look a little like horns; and they are too long.”

And he laughed again.

“You are not fair, little prince,” I said. “I don’t know how to draw anything except boas from the outside and boas from the inside.”

“Oh, that will be all right,” he said, “children understand.”

So then I made a picture of a muzzle. And I gave it to him.

“You have plans that I do not know about,” I said.

But he did not answer me. He said to me, instead:

“You know—my descent to the earth. Tomorrow will be its anniversary.”

Then, after a silence, he went on:

“I came down very near here.”

And he flushed.

And I felt sad. One question, however, occurred to me:

“Then on the morning when I first met you—a week ago—you were, all alone, a thousand miles from any town, you were going to the place where you landed?”

The little prince flushed again.

And I added, with some hesitancy:

“Perhaps it was because of the anniversary?”

The little prince flushed once more. He never answered questions—but when one flushes does that not mean “Yes”?

“Ah,” I said to him, “I am a little frightened—”

But he interrupted me.

“Now you must work. You must return to your engine. I will wait for you here. Come back tomorrow evening.”

26

Beside the well there was the ruin of an old stone wall. When I came back the next evening, I saw my little prince. He was sitting on top of a wall, his feet were dangling. He was saying:

“Then you don’t remember. This is not the exact spot.”

Another voice answered him:

“Yes, yes! It is the right day, but this is not the place.”

I continued walking towards the wall. But I did not see or hear anyone. The little prince, however, replied once again:

“Exactly. You will see where my steps begins, in the sand. Just wait for me there. I shall be there tonight.”

I was only twenty meters from the wall, and I still saw nothing.

After a silence the little prince spoke again:

“You have good poison? You are sure that I shall not suffer too long?”

I did not understand.

“Now go away,” said the little prince. “I want to get down from the wall.”

I dropped my eyes, then, to the foot of the wall—and I leaped into the air. There before me was a yellow snake! Its poison kills in thirty seconds. I wanted to get out my revolver. But the snake heard the noise and flew easily across the sand and disappeared, with a light metallic sound, among the stones.

I reached the wall and caught my little man in my arms; his face was white as snow.

“What does this mean?” I demanded. “Why are you talking with snakes?”

I moistened his face, and gave him some water to drink. And I did not ask him any more questions. He looked at me very gravely, and put his arms around my neck.

“I am glad that you found what was wrong with your engine,” he said. “Now you can go back home.”

“How do you know about that?”

I was just coming to tell him that my work was successful.

He did not answer, but he added:

“I, too, am going back home today.”

Then, sadly—

“It is much farther. It is much more difficult.”

I realized clearly that something extraordinary was happening. His was very serious.

“I have your sheep. And I have the sheep’s box. And I have the muzzle.”

And he smiled sadly.

I waited a long time.

“Dear little man,” I said to him, “you are afraid.”

He was afraid, but he laughed lightly.

“I shall be much more afraid this evening.”

“Little man,” I said, “I want to hear how you laugh.”

But he said to me:

“Tonight, it will be a year. My star, then, will be right above the place where I came to the Earth, a year ago.”

“Little man,” I said, “tell me that it is only a bad dream—this snake, and the meeting-place, and the star.”

But he did not answer. He said to me, instead:

“The thing that is important is the thing that one cannot see.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is just as it is with the flower. If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars bloom with flowers.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is just as it is with the water. Because of the pulley, and the rope, what you gave me to drink was like music. You remember—how good it was.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And at night you will look up at the stars. My star is so small that I cannot show it. My star will just be one of the stars, for you. And so you will love to watch all the stars in the heavens. They will all be your friends. And, besides, I am going to make you a present.”

He laughed.

“Ah, little prince, dear little prince! I love to hear that laughter!”

“That is my present. Just that.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“All men have the stars,” he answered, “but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are just little lights in the sky. For scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent. You—you alone—will have special stars.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“In one of the stars I shall live. In one of them I shall laugh. And so it will be as if all the stars laugh, when you look at the sky at night. You—only you—will have stars that can laugh! Like bells!”

And he laughed again.

“And later you will be content that you knew me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window and your friends will be astonished to see that you laugh when you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, ‘Yes, I always laugh when I look up at the stars!’ And they will think you are crazy.”

And he laughed again. Then he quickly became serious:

“Tonight—you know. Do not come.”

“I shall not leave you,” I said.

“I shall look as if I suffer. I shall look a little as if I die. It is like that. Do not come to see that. It is not worth the trouble.”

“I shall not leave you.”

But he was worried.

“I tell you—it is also because of the snake. He must not bite you. Snakes—they are malicious creatures. This snake can bite you just for fun.”

“I shall not leave you.”

But a thought came to him:

“It is true that they have no more poison for a second bite.”

That night he got away from me without a sound. When I saw him he was walking along with a quick and resolute step. He said to me merely:

“Ah! You are there.”

And he took me by the hand. But he was still worrying.

“You are wrong, it’s better not to go with me. You will suffer. I shall look as if I am dead; and that will not be true.”

I said nothing.

“You understand, it is too far. I cannot carry this body with me. It is too heavy.”

I said nothing.

“But it is like an old shell. No need to be sad about old shells.”

I said nothing.

He was a little discouraged. But he made one more effort:

“You know, it will be very nice. I, too, shall look at the stars. All the stars will be wells with a rusty pulley. All the stars will give me fresh water to drink.”

I said nothing.

“That will be so amusing! You will have five hundred million little bells, and I shall have five hundred million springs of fresh water.”

And he said nothing more, because he was crying.

“Here it is. Let me go on by myself.”

And he sat down, because he was afraid. Then he said, again:

“You know—my flower. I am responsible for her. And she is so weak! She is so naive! She has four thorns, of no use at all, to protect herself against all the world.”

I too sat down.

“There now—that is all.”

He still hesitated a little; then he got up. He took one step. I did not move.

There was a flash of yellow close to his ankle. He remained motionless for an instant. He did not cry out. He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand.