The next planet was a small one. A tippler lived there, all by himself. He was sitting in silence in front of a row of empty bottles and a row of full ones.

What are you doing? the prince asked.

I am drinking, said the tippler, with a gloomy air.

Why are you drinking? asked the prince.

So that I may forget, said the tippler.

Forget what? asked the prince, who was already beginning to feel sorry for him.

Forget that I am ashamed, said the tippler, lowering his head.

Ashamed of what? asked the prince, who wanted to help him.

Ashamed of drinking, said the tippler — and he shut himself up in a silence from which nothing could bring him out.

The prince went away, very puzzled. Grown-ups, he said to himself, are certainly very, very odd.

He did not stay long on that planet. There was nothing much to see, only the bottles and the man. But he thought about him for a long time afterwards. It is strange, he thought, to be sad because of a thing, and to use that very thing to stop being sad. The circle never ends. Someone ought to sit with him, he thought. Someone ought to take his hand.

But it was not his planet. And the prince had more planets to see.

Why are you drinking? — So that I may forget. — Forget what? — Forget that I am ashamed.