When I was a little boy I lived in an old house, and legend told us that a treasure was buried there.
To be sure, no one had ever known how to find it; perhaps no one had ever even looked for it.
But 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 dropped off to sleep, I took him in my arms and set out walking once more.
I felt deeply moved, and stirred. It seemed to me that I was carrying a very fragile treasure.
It seemed to me, even, that there was nothing more fragile on all Earth.
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 with the suspicious of a half-smile,
I said to myself, again: What moves me so deeply, about this little prince who is sleeping here,
is his loyalty to a flower– the image of a rose that shines through his whole being like the fame of a flamp, even when he is asleep...
And I felt him to be more fragile still.
I felt the need of protecting him, as if he himself were a flame that might be extinguished by a little puff of wind...
And, as I walked on so, I found the well, at daybreak.