"I don't think I have
any destiny."
"Paradox," said the man, "is meant to conceal the insincerity of the
aged, not to express the simplicity of youth. But I wander. You have
made phrases tonight."
"What are phrases?"
"What are dreams? What are roses? What, in fine, is the moon? Boy, I
take you for a moon-child. You hold her pale flowers in your arms,
her white beams have caressed your limbs, you prefer the kisses of
her cool lips to those of that earth-child; all this is very well.
But, above all, you have the music of her great silence; above all,
you have her tears. When I played to you on my pipe you recognised
the voice of your mother. When I showed you my pictures you recalled
the tales with which she hushed you to sleep. And so I knew that you
were her son and my little brother."
"The moon has always been my friend," said the boy; "but I did not
know that she was my mother."
"Perhaps your sister knows it; the happy dead are glad to seek her
for a mother; that is why they are so fond of white flowers."
"We have a mother at home. She works very hard for us."
"But it is your mother among the clouds who makes your life
beautiful, and the beauty of your life is the measure of your days."
While the boy reflected on these things they had reached the gates of
the park, and they stole past the silent lodge on to the high road. A
man was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy's
companion he rushed out and seized him by the arm.
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