"Because I must go on to Paris; I cannot lose an hour. Nevertheless, it is good of you."
The old woman laughed roughly.
"Oh-ho! the red apple must go to Paris. No other market grand enough! Is that it?"
"I do not know what you mean."
"But stay with me to-night. The roads are dangerous. There are vagrants and ill-livers about. There are great fogs, too, in this district; and you will meet drunken soldiers and beggars who will rob you. Come home with me. I have a pretty little place, though poor; and you shall have such fare as I give my own daughters. And maybe you will see two or three of the young nobles. They look in for a laugh and a song—all innocent: my girls are favorites. Come, it is not a stone's throw through the south gate."
"You are good; but I cannot come. As for the road, I am not afraid. I have a good knife, and I am strong."
She spoke in all unconsciousness, in her heart thankful to this, the first human creature that had ever offered her shelter or good nature.
The woman darted one sharp look at her, venomous as an adder's bite; then bade her a short good-night, and went on her way to the gates of the town.
Folle-Farine rose up and walked on, taking her own southward road.
She was ignorant of any peril that she had escaped. She did not know that the only animals which prey upon the young of their own sex and kind are women.