Aprendí bien pronto a conocer mejor esta flor. Siempre había habido en el planeta del principito flores muy simples adornadas con una sola fila de pétalos que apenas ocupaban sitio y a nadie molestaban. Aparecían entre la hierba una mañana y por la tarde se extinguían. Pero aquella había germinado un día de una semilla llegada de quién sabe dónde, y el principito había vigilado cuidadosamente desde el primer día aquella ramita tan diferente de las que él conocía. Podía ser una nueva especie de Baobab. Pero el arbusto cesó pronto de crecer y comenzó a echar su flor. El principito observó el crecimiento de un enorme capullo y tenía el convencimiento de que habría de salir de allí una aparición milagrosa; pero la flor no acababa de preparar su belleza al abrigo de su envoltura verde. Elegía con cuidado sus colores, se vestía lentamente y se ajustaba uno a uno sus pétalos. No quería salir ya ajada como las amapolas; quería aparecer en todo el esplendor de su belleza. ¡Ah, era muy coqueta aquella flor! Su misteriosa preparación duraba días y días. Hasta que una mañana, precisamente al salir el sol se mostró espléndida.

La flor, que había trabajado con tanta precisión, dijo bostezando:

—¡Ah, perdóname… apenas acabo de despertarme… estoy toda despeinada…!

El principito no pudo contener su admiración:

—¡Qué hermosa eres!

—¿Verdad? —respondió dulcemente la flor—. He nacido al mismo tiempo que el sol.

El principito adivinó exactamente que ella no era muy modesta ciertamente, pero ¡era tan conmovedora!

—Me parece que ya es hora de desayunar — añadió la flor —; si tuvieras la bondad de pensar un poco en mí...

Y el principito, muy confuso, habiendo ido a buscar una regadera la roció abundantemente con agua fresca.

Y así, ella lo había atormentado con su vanidad un poco sombría. Un día, por ejemplo, hablando de sus cuatro espinas, dijo al principito:

—¡Ya pueden venir los tigres, con sus garras!

—No hay tigres en mi planeta —observó el principito— y, además, los tigres no comen hierba.

—Yo no soy una hierba —respondió dulcemente la flor.

—Perdóname...

—No temo a los tigres, pero tengo miedo a las corrientes de aire. ¿No tendrás un biombo?

"Miedo a las corrientes de aire no es una suerte para una planta —pensó el principito—. Esta flor es demasiado complicada…"

—Por la noche me cubrirás con un fanal… hace mucho frío en tu tierra. No se está muy a gusto; allá de donde yo vengo…

La flor se interrumpió; había llegado allí en forma de semilla y no era posible que conociera otros mundos. Humillada por haberse dejado sorprender inventando una mentira tan ingenua, tosió dos o tres veces para atraerse la simpatía del principito.

—¿Y el biombo?

—Iba a buscarlo, pero como no dejabas de hablarme…

Insistió en su tos para darle al menos remordimientos.

De esta manera el principito, a pesar de la buena voluntad de su amor, había llegado a dudar de ella. Había tomado en serio palabras sin importancia y se sentía desgraciado.

"Yo no debía hacerle caso —me confesó un día el principito— nunca hay que hacer caso a las flores, basta con mirarlas y olerlas. Mi flor embalsamaba el planeta, pero yo no sabía gozar con eso… Aquella historia de garra y tigres que tanto me molestó, hubiera debido enternecerme".

Y me contó todavía:

“¡No supe comprender nada entonces! Debí juzgarla por sus actos y no por sus palabras. ¡La flor perfumaba e iluminaba mi vida y jamás debí huir de allí! ¡No supe adivinar la ternura que ocultaban sus pobres astucias! ¡Son tan contradictorias las flores! Pero yo era demasiado joven para saber amarla".

I soon learned to know this flower better. On the little prince's planet the flowers had always been very simple. They had only one ring of petals; they took up no room at all; they were a trouble to nobody. One morning they would appear in the grass, and by night they would have faded peacefully away. But one day, from a seed blown from no one knew where, a new flower had come up; and the little prince had watched very closely over this small sprout which was not like any other small sprouts on his planet. It might, you see, have been a new kind of baobab. The shrub soon stopped growing, and began to get ready to produce a flower. The little prince, who was present at the first appearance of a huge bud, felt at once that some sort of miraculous apparition must emerge from it. But the flower was not satisfied to complete the preparations for her beauty in the shelter of her green chamber. She chose her colors with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She did not wish to go out into the world all rumpled, like the field poppies. It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature! And her mysterious adornment lasted for days and days. Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself.

And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said:

"Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged..."

But the little prince could not restrain his admiration:

"Oh! How beautiful you are!"

"Am I not?" the flower responded, sweetly. "And I was born at the same moment as the sun..."

The little prince could guess easily enough that she was not any too modest--but how moving--and exciting--she was!

"I think it is time for breakfast," she added an instant later. "If you would have the kindness to think of my needs--"

And the little prince, completely abashed, went to look for a sprinkling-can of fresh water. So, he tended the flower.

So, too, she began very quickly to torment him with her vanity--which was, if the truth be known, a little difficult to deal with. One day, for instance, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince:

"Let the tigers come with their claws!"

"There are no tigers on my planet," the little prince objected. "And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds."

"I am not a weed," the flower replied, sweetly.

"Please excuse me..."

"I am not at all afraid of tigers," she went on, "but I have a horror of drafts. I suppose you wouldn't have a screen for me?"

"A horror of drafts--that is bad luck, for a plant," remarked the little prince, and added to himself, "This flower is a very complex creature..."

"At night I want you to put me under a glass globe. It is very cold where you live. In the place I came from--"

But she interrupted herself at that point. She had come in the form of a seed. She could not have known anything of any other worlds. Embarassed over having let herself be caught on the verge of such a naïve untruth, she coughed two or three times, in order to put the little prince in the wrong.

"The screen?"

"I was just going to look for it when you spoke to me . . ."

Then she forced her cough a little more so that he should suffer from remorse just the same.

So the little prince, in spite of all the good will that was inseparable from his love, had soon come to doubt her. He had taken seriously words which were without importance, and it made him very unhappy.

"I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day. "One never ought to listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. But I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."

And he continued his confidences:

"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little strategems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her..."