Al quinto día y también en relación con el cordero, me fue revelado este otro secreto de la vida del principito. Me preguntó bruscamente y sin preámbulo, como resultado de un problema largamente meditado en silencio:

—Si un cordero se come los arbustos, se comerá también las flores ¿no?

—Un cordero se come todo lo que encuentra.

—¿Y también las flores que tienen espinas?

—Sí; también las flores que tienen espinas.

—Entonces, ¿para qué le sirven las espinas?

Confieso que no lo sabía. Estaba yo muy ocupado tratando de destornillar un perno demasiado apretado del motor; la avería comenzaba a parecerme cosa grave y la circunstancia de que se estuviera agotando mi provisión de agua, me hacía temer lo peor.

—¿Para qué sirven las espinas?

El principito no permitía nunca que se dejara sin respuesta una pregunta formulada por él. Irritado por la resistencia que me oponía el perno, le respondí lo primero que se me ocurrió:

—Las espinas no sirven para nada; son pura maldad de las flores.

—¡Oh!

Y después de un silencio, me dijo con una especie de rencor:

—¡No te creo! Las flores son débiles. Son ingenuas. Se defienden como pueden. Se creen terribles con sus espinas… 

No le respondí nada; en aquel momento me estaba diciendo a mí mismo: "Si este perno me resiste un poco más, lo haré saltar de un martillazo". El principito interrumpió de nuevo mis pensamientos:

—¿Tú crees que las flores…?

—¡No, no creo nada! Te he respondido cualquier cosa para que te calles. Tengo que ocuparme de cosas serias.

Me miró estupefacto.

—¡De cosas serias!

Me miraba con mi martillo en la mano, los dedos llenos de grasa e inclinado sobre algo que le parecía muy feo.

—¡Hablas como las personas mayores!

Me avergonzó un poco. Pero él, implacable, añadió:

—¡Lo confundes todo…todo lo mezclas…!

Estaba verdaderamente irritado; sacudía la cabeza, agitando al viento sus cabellos dorados.

—Conozco un planeta donde vive un señor muy colorado, que nunca ha olido una flor, ni ha mirado una estrella y que jamás ha querido a nadie. En toda su vida no ha hecho más que sumas. Y todo el día se lo pasa repitiendo como tú: "¡Yo soy un hombre serio, yo soy un hombre serio!"… Al parecer esto le llena de orgullo. Pero eso no es un hombre, ¡es un hongo!

—¿Un qué?

—Un hongo.

El principito estaba pálido de cólera.

—Hace millones de años que las flores tiene espinas y hace también millones de años que los corderos, a pesar de las espinas, se comen las flores. ¿Es que no es cosa seria averiguar por qué las flores pierden el tiempo fabricando unas espinas que no les sirven para nada? ¿Es que no es importante la guerra de los corderos y las flores? ¿No es esto más serio e importante que las sumas de un señor gordo y colorado? Y si yo sé de una flor única en el mundo y que no existe en ninguna parte más que en mi planeta; si yo sé que un buen día un corderillo puede aniquilarla sin darse cuenta de ello, ¿es que esto no es importante?

El principito enrojeció y después continuó:

—Si alguien ama a una flor de la que sólo existe un ejemplar en millones y millones de estrellas, basta que las mire para ser dichoso. Puede decir satisfecho: "Mi flor está allí, en alguna parte…" ¡Pero si el cordero se la come, para él es como si de pronto todas las estrellas se apagaran! ¡Y esto no es importante!

No pudo decir más y estalló bruscamente en sollozos. La noche había caído. Yo había soltado las herramientas y ya no importaban nada el martillo, el perno, la sed y la muerte. ¡Había en una estrella, en un planeta, el mío, la Tierra, un principito a quien consolar! Lo tomé en mis brazos y lo mecí diciéndole: 

-"La flor que tú quieres no corre peligro… te dibujaré un bozal para tu cordero y una armadura para la flor…te…". 

No sabía qué decirle, cómo consolarle y hacer que tuviera nuevamente confianza en mí; me sentía torpe. ¡Es tan misterioso el país de las lágrimas!

On the fifth day--again, as always, it was thanks to the sheep--the secret of the little prince's life was revealed to me. Abruptly, without anything to lead up to it, and as if the question had been born of long and silent meditation on his problem, he demanded:

"A sheep--if it eats little bushes, does it eat flowers, too?"

"A sheep," I answered, "eats anything it finds in its reach."

"Even flowers that have thorns?"

"Yes, even flowers that have thorns."

"Then the thorns--what use are they?"

I did not know. At that moment I was very busy trying to unscrew a bolt that had got stuck in my engine. I was very much worried, for it was becoming clear to me that the breakdown of my plane was extremely serious. And I had so little drinking-water left that I had to fear for the worst.

"The thorns--what use are they?"

The little prince never let go of a question, once he had asked it. As for me, I was upset over that bolt. And I answered with the first thing that came into my head:

"The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite!"

"Oh!"

There was a moment of complete silence. Then the little prince flashed back at me, with a kind of resentfulness:

"I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons . . ."

I did not answer. At that instant I was saying to myself: "If this bolt still won't turn, I am going to knock it out with the hammer." Again the little prince disturbed my thoughts:

"And you actually believe that the flowers--"

"Oh, no!" I cried. "No, no, no! I don't believe anything. I answered you with the first thing that came into my head. Don't you see--I am very busy with matters of consequence!"

He stared at me, thunderstruck.

"Matters of consequence!"

He looked at me there, with my hammer in my hand, my fingers black with engine-grease, bending down over an object which seemed to him extremely ugly . . .

"You talk just like the grown-ups!"

That made me a little ashamed. But he went on, relentlessly:

"You mix everything up together . . . You confuse everything..."

He was really very angry. He tossed his golden curls in the breeze.

"I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man--he is a mushroom!"

"A what?"

"A mushroom!"

The little prince was now white with rage.

"The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I know--I, myself--one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing--Oh! You think that is not important!"

His face turned from white to red as he continued:

"If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, 'Somewhere, my flower is there . . .' But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened . . . And you think that is not important!"

He could not say anything more. His words were choked by sobbing.

The night had fallen. I had let my tools drop from my hands. Of what moment now was my hammer, my bolt, or thirst, or death? On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince to be comforted. I took him in my arms, and rocked him. I said to him:

"The flower that you love is not in danger. I will draw you a muzzle for your sheep. I will draw you a railing to put around your flower. I will--"

I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more. It is such a secret place, the land of tears.