‘Yes, sir,’ replied the host, winking at the fox and the cat as if to say, ‘I understand what you are up to. We know each other.’
As soon as he was in bed, Pinocchio fell asleep, and began to dream. He dreamed that he was in the middle of a field, and the field was full of small trees, the branches of which were laden with gold pieces swinging gently in the breeze, and chattering as if to say, ‘Whoever wants us, come and take us!’ But just at the most interesting moment – that is, when Pinocchio stretched out his hand to pick a handful and put them in his pocket – he was suddenly awakened by three violent knocks on the door.
It was the innkeeper, who came to tell him that it was midnight.
‘Are my companions ready?’ asked Pinocchio.
‘Ready! They left two hours ago.’
‘Why were they in such a hurry?’
‘Because the cat received a message that her eldest son was very sick with chilblains, and not expected to live.’
‘Did they pay for our supper?’
‘What an idea! They were far too well-mannered to offer such an insult to a gentleman like you.’
‘That’s too bad! Such an insult would have been a great pleasure!’ said Pinocchio, scratching his head. Then he inquired, ‘And where did those good friends of mine say they would wait for me?’
‘In the Field of Miracles, tomorrow morning, at sunrise.’
Pinocchio paid for his supper, and that of his friends, with a gold piece, and left. It was so dark that he had to grope his way, and it was impossible to see as far as his hand before his face. In the country round him, not a leaf stirred. Only a few night birds, flying across the road from one hedge to the other, brushed Pinocchio’s nose with their wings, frightening him so that he jumped back, crying, ‘Who goes there?’
An echo answered from the distant hills, ‘Who goes there? Who goes there? Who goes there?’
As he walked on he saw a little creature on the trunk of a tree, which shone with a pale faint light, like a night lamp with a china shade.
‘Who are you?’ asked Pinocchio.
‘I am the ghost of the talking cricket,’ was the reply, in a low, low voice, so faint that it seemed to come from another world.
‘What do you want from me?’ said the marionette.
‘I want to give you some advice. Go back home, and carry the four gold pieces you have left to your poor father, who is weeping and longing for you.’
‘Tomorrow my father will be a rich gentleman, for these four gold pieces will have become two thousand.’
‘My boy, never trust people who promise to make you rich in a day. They are generally crazy swindlers. Listen to me, and go back home.’
‘No, on the contrary, I am going forward.’
‘It is very late.’
‘I am going forward.’
‘The night is dark.’
‘I am going forward.’
‘It’s a dangerous road …’
‘I am going forward.’
‘Remember that children who do as they please and want to have their own way, are sorry for it sooner or later.’
‘That’s an old story. Good night, cricket!’
‘Good night, Pinocchio. May Heaven preserve you from dangers and assassins!’
With these words, the talking cricket disappeared as suddenly as when you blow out a candle; and the path was darker than before.
Pinocchio does not listen to the good advice of the talking cricket, and meets the assassins
‘Really,’ said Pinocchio to himself, as he continued his journey, ‘how unfortunate we poor boys are! Everybody scolds us, everybody warns us, everybody advises us. When they talk you would think they are all our fathers, or our school-masters – all of them: even the talking cricket. Just imagine – because I would not listen to that tiresome talking cricket, who knows, according to him, how many misfortunes will befall me? I shall even meet some assassins! Fortunately I don’t believe, and never have believed, in assassins. I am sure that assassins have been invented by fathers to frighten us, so that we should not dare to go out at night. But supposing I should meet them, on the road, would I be afraid of them? Certainly not! I should walk straight up to them and say, “Mr Assassins, what do you want from me? Just remember that there’s no joking with me. You had better be quiet, and go about your business!” If those wretched assassins heard me talking like that, I can just see them running away like the wind. But if, by chance, they didn’t run away, I would and that would be the end of it.’
Pinocchio would have continued his musings, but at that moment he thought he heard a rustling of leaves behind him.
Turning quickly, he saw two frightful black figures wrapped in charcoal sacks leaping towards him on tiptoe, like two spectres.
‘There they are, for sure!’ he said to himself and, not knowing where to hide his gold pieces, he put them in his mouth, under his tongue.
Then he tried to run away; but before he could take the first step, he felt himself seized by his arms, and heard two horrible, cavernous voices cry, ‘Your money, or your life!’
Pinocchio not being able to speak, since the money was in his mouth, made a thousand bows and gestures to show those masked fellows, whose eyes were visible only through holes in the sacks, that he was a poor puppet, and hadn’t even a counterfeit farthing in his pocket.
‘Come, come! Less nonsense, and hand over your money!’ the two brigands cried menacingly.
But the puppet made signs with his hands, as if to say, ‘I haven’t any!’
‘Hand over your money, or you are dead!’ said the taller of the assassins.
‘Dead!’ repeated the other.
‘And after we have killed you, we shall kill your father, too!’
‘Your father, too!’ repeated the other.
‘No, no, no, not my poor father!’ cried Pinocchio in despair. But as he spoke, the gold pieces clinked in his mouth.
‘Ah, ha, you rascal! So you hid your money under your tongue! Spit it out, at once!’
Pinocchio did not obey.
‘Oh, so you cannot hear what we say? Wait a moment, we’ll make you spit it out!’
And one of them seized the puppet by the end of his nose, and the other by his chin, and they pulled without mercy, one up, the other down, to make him open his mouth; but it was no use. Pinocchio’s mouth was as tightly closed as if it had been nailed and riveted.
Then the smaller assassin drew a horrid knife, and tried to force it between his lips, like a chisel, but Pinocchio, quick as lightning, bit off his hand and spat it out. Imagine his astonishment when he saw that it was a cat’s paw he spat to the ground!
Encouraged by this first victory, using his nails he freed himself from the assassins and, jumping over the hedge by the roadside, fled across the country. The assassins ran after him, like dogs after a hare. The smaller one, who had lost a paw, ran on one leg, though goodness knows how he did it.
After