I will leave you to imagine the grief, the shame, the desperation of Pinocchio. He cried and screamed and beat his head against the wall; but his ears grew and grew and grew until hair began to show on the tops.
At the sound of his heartrending cries a Dormouse, who lived on the first floor, entered the room. Seeing the marionette in great anguish, he asked eagerly, “What is the matter, my dear little lodger?”
“I am sick, Dormouse; very sick, and with a sickness that alarms me. Do you understand the pulse?”
“A little.”
“See, then, if I have a fever.”
The Dormouse took Pinocchio’s wrist in his paw and, after having tested his pulse, said, “My friend, it grieves me to tell you bad news.”
“What is it?”
“You have a bad fever.”
“What kind?”
“The donkey fever.”
“I do not understand that disease,” replied Pinocchio, who really understood very well.
“I will explain it to you. Know, then, that in two or three hours you will be a donkey, a real donkey, like those that pulled the carriage which brought you here.”
“Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?” cried
