Folle-Farine did not move.
"Pick up the sacks this moment, little brute," said the miller. "If you stand still a second before they are all housed, you shall have as many stripes as there are sacks left untouched. Oh-hè, do you hear?"
She heard, but she did not move.
"Do you hear?" he pursued. "As many strokes as there are sacks, little wretch. Now—I will give you three moments to choose. One!"
Folle-Farine still stood mute and immovable, her head erect, her arms crossed on her chest. A small, slender, bronze-hued, half-nude figure among the ruby hues of the gladioli and the pure snowlike whiteness of the lilies.
"Two!"
She stood in the same attitude, the sacks lying untouched at her feet, a purple-winged butterfly lighting on her head.
"Three!"
She was still mute; still motionless.
He seized her by the shoulder with one hand, and with the other lifted the rope.