On they walked, and on, and on, until at last, as evening fell, they arrived dead tired at the Red Crawfish Inn.
“Let's stop here a little while,” said the Fox, “just to have a bite to eat and rest for a few hours. Then at midnight we'll set off again, so as to be at the Field of Miracles tomorrow at dawn.”
Once inside the inn, all three of them sat down at a table: but none of them had any appetite.
The poor Cat, feeling seriously upset in his stomach, could eat nothing but thirty-five red mullets in tomato sauce and four helpings of tripe with Parmesan: and because the tripe did not seem to him seasoned enough, he asked three times over for more butter and grated cheese!
The Fox would gladly have nibbled at something too: but since the doctor had put her on a very strict diet, she had to make do with a plain hare in sweet-and-sour sauce, with a very light garnish of fattened pullets and young cockerels. After the hare she had them bring her, just to bring back her appetite, a little stew of partridges, grey partridges, rabbits, frogs, lizards and paradise grapes; and after that she wanted nothing more.
She felt so sick at the sight of food, she said, that she could not put a thing to her lips.
The one who ate least of all was Pinocchio. He asked for a quarter of a walnut and a crust of bread, and left everything on his plate. The poor boy, his mind still fixed on the Field of Miracles, had already given himself indigestion in advance on gold coins.
When they had finished supper, the Fox said to the innkeeper:
“Give us two good rooms, one for Signor Pinocchio and another for me and my companion. Before we set off again we'll snatch a little nap. But remember, we want to be woken at midnight to continue our journey.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the innkeeper, and he winked at the Fox and the Cat, as if to say: “I've caught on, and we understand each other!...”
As soon as Pinocchio got into bed, he fell asleep on the spot and began to dream. And in his dream he seemed to be in the middle of a field, and this field was full of little trees laden with bunches, and these bunches were laden with gold pieces which, swinging in the wind, went zing, zing, zing, as if they wanted to say: “Whoever wants us, let him come and take us.” But just when Pinocchio got to the best part, that is, when he stretched out his hand to grab handfuls of all those lovely coins and put them in his pocket, he was suddenly woken by three tremendous knocks on his bedroom door.
It was the innkeeper, come to tell him that midnight had struck.
“And are my companions ready?” the puppet asked him.
“Ready? I should say so! They left two hours ago.”
“Why on earth such a hurry?”
“Because the Cat got a message that his eldest kitten, who was ill with chilblains on his feet, was in danger of his life.”
“And did they pay for the supper?”
“What do you take them for? Those two are far too well-mannered to offer such an insult to your lordship.”
“What a pity! I'd have been so pleased with that insult!” said Pinocchio, scratching his head. Then he asked:
“And where did those good friends say they would wait for me?”
“At the Field of Miracles, tomorrow morning, at daybreak.”
Pinocchio paid one gold piece for his own supper and his companions', and then he left.
But you could say he left groping his way, because outside the inn it was so dark, so very dark, that you couldn't see from here to there. In the countryside all around not a leaf could be heard stirring. Only a few big ugly night birds, flying across the road from one hedge to the other, came and flapped their wings against Pinocchio's nose, and he, jumping back in fright, would shout: “Who goes there?” and the echo of the surrounding hills repeated in the distance: “Who goes there? Who goes there? Who goes there?”
Meanwhile, as he walked along, he saw on the trunk of a tree a tiny little creature that glowed with a pale, dim light, like a night-light inside a lamp of transparent china.
“Who are you?” Pinocchio asked it.
“I am the ghost of the Talking Cricket,” answered the little creature in a faint, faint little voice that seemed to come from the other world.
“What do you want from me?” said the puppet.
“I want to give you a piece of advice. Go back, and take the four gold pieces you have left to your poor father, who is weeping and in despair because he hasn't seen you since.”
“Tomorrow my father will be a grand gentleman, because these four gold pieces are going to turn into two thousand.”
“Don't trust people who promise to make you rich between morning and evening, my boy. As a rule they are either mad or swindlers! Listen to me: go back.”
“And I want to go on.”
“The hour is late!...”
“I want to go on.”
“The night is dark....”
“I want to go on.”
“The road is dangerous....”
“I want to go on.”
“Remember that boys who insist on having their own way and doing as they please are sorry for it sooner or later.”
“The same old story. Good night, Cricket.”
“Good night, Pinocchio, and may heaven keep you safe from the night dew and from the assassins.”
No sooner had he spoken these last words than the Talking Cricket went out all of a sudden, the way a light goes out when you blow on it, and the road was left darker than before.