Where Don Carotte, while Lucian continues on his way, must endure a few very slight affronts from those over whom he believed himself to possess a certain authority…
— The most valiant must humble himself before that which puts him to the test, for no man knows the end of a road until he has fallen or been crowned.
— Do not make me laugh, Sang Chaud… Not everyone can be Chrétien de Troyes!
— Laugh not, knight… if thy steed seems puny to thee… often the humblest mount carries farther than the proudest courser. For greatness lies not in what thou ridest, but in what thou consentest to follow.
The attentive reader will have noticed a very slightly subversive use of the familiar thou.
Don Carotte frowns; he cannot stop thinking and thinking again about the fact that the donkeys might lose more than their shadow…
— More? What do you mean by “more”? What could this more be… that would surpass the shadow?
— Well… there was once a legend about a reckless little donkey who climbed down to follow a fallen leaf, believing it still alive. They say he lost not only his shadow, but his memory as well, then his shape, and that in the end he became nothing more than a green stain upon a warm stone… But those are only words from old tales, of course.
The so-called knight takes a few steps, his arms swinging, trampling the grass of the clearing.
— So! he exclaims. I am supposed to take as my mount this minuscule creature, which cannot carry me, which must not follow me, and which, if it does follow me, risks being reduced to a stain? Is that your grand plan, O guide of the undergrowth?
With a theatrical gesture he turns towards Sang Chaud, who is barely smiling, though just enough for it to be noticed.
— And if I mount him? If I demand that he carry me off on lofty adventures… And if he must climb down from the tree to follow me… And if he loses his shadow? Tell me then, dear counsellor, what greatness could there be for a knight in causing his mount to lose its shadow?
Sang Chaud gives a slight shrug, pretends to reflect, concealing the faintest of smiles… then declares with feigned innocence:
— Well… if he loses his shadow, at least he will no longer be able to cast any upon you.
He lets a light, almost mocking silence linger. Don Carotte, like a carp in a pond… opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. Nothing comes out.
He remains there, motionless, upon the tree in the clearing, a man too large before a donkey too small, prisoner of a tree too vast in the middle of nowhere.
The silence of the forest seems to applaud while Don Carotte, among the shadows of the tree, sets about gathering once more in his mind the idea of a quest whose outlines never cease to elude him…
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