Short Stories, vol 11 | Page 8

with a big paunch, supple
nevertheless, through his constant habit of climbing over the wheels to
the top of the wagon, his face all aglow from exposure to the brisk air
of the plains, to rain and storms, and also from the use of brandy, his
eyes twitching from the effect of constant contact with wind and hail,
appeared in the doorway of the hotel, wiping his mouth on the back of
his hand. Large round baskets, full of frightened poultry, were standing
in front of the peasant women. Cesaire Horlaville took them one after
the other and packed them on the top of his coach; then more gently, he
loaded on those containing eggs; finally he tossed up from below
several little bags of grain, small packages wrapped in handkerchiefs,
pieces of cloth, or paper. Then he opened the back door, and drawing a
list from his pocket he called:
"Monsieur le cure de Gorgeville."
The priest advanced. He was a large, powerful, robust man with a red
face and a genial expression. He hitched up his cassock to lift his foot,
just as the women hold up their skirts, and climbed into the coach.
"The schoolmaster of Rollebose-les-Grinets."
The man hastened forward, tall, timid, wearing a long frock coat which
fell to his knees, and he in turn disappeared through the open door.
"Maitre Poiret, two seats."
Poiret approached, a tall, round-shouldered man, bent by the plow,
emaciated through abstinence, bony, with a skin dried by a sparing use
of water. His wife followed him, small and thin, like a tired animal,
carrying a large green umbrella in her hands.
"Maitre Rabot, two seats."
Rabot hesitated, being of an undecided nature. He asked:

"You mean me?"
The driver was going to answer with a jest, when Rabot dived head first
towards the door, pushed forward by a vigorous shove from his wife, a
tall, square woman with a large, round stomach like a barrel, and hands
as large as hams.
Rabot slipped into the wagon like a rat entering a hole.
"Maitre Caniveau."
A large peasant, heavier than an ox, made the springs bend, and was in
turn engulfed in the interior of the yellow chest.
"Maitre Belhomme."
Belhomme, tall and thin, came forward, his neck bent, his head hanging,
a handkerchief held to his ear as if he were suffering from a terrible
toothache.
All these people wore the blue blouse over quaint and antique coats of a
black or greenish cloth, Sunday clothes which they would only uncover
in the streets of Havre. Their heads were covered by silk caps at high as
towers, the emblem of supreme elegance in the small villages of
Normandy.
Cesaire Horlaville closed the door, climbed up on his box and snapped
his whip.
The three horses awoke and, tossing their heads, shook their bells.
The driver then yelling "Get up!" as loud as he could, whipped up his
horses. They shook themselves, and, with an effort, started off at a slow,
halting gait. And behind them came the coach, rattling its shaky
windows and iron springs, making a terrible clatter of hardware and
glass, while the passengers were tossed hither and thither like so many
rubber balls.
At first all kept silent out of respect for the priest, that they might not
shock him. Being of a loquacious and genial disposition, he started the
conversation.
"Well, Maitre Caniveau," said he, "how are you getting along?"
The enormous farmer who, on account of his size, girth and stomach,
felt a bond of sympathy for the representative of the Church, answered
with a smile:
"Pretty well, Monsieur le cure, pretty well. And how are you?"
"Oh! I'm always well and healthy."
"And you, Maitre Poiret?" asked the abbe.

"Oh! I'd be all right only the colzas ain't a-goin' to give much this year,
and times are so hard that they are the only things worth while raisin'."
"Well, what can you expect? Times are hard."
"Hub! I should say they were hard," sounded the rather virile voice of
Rabot's big consort.
As she was from a neighboring village, the priest only knew her by
name.
"Is that you, Blondel?" he said.
"Yes, I'm the one that married Rabot."
Rabot, slender, timid, and self-satisfied, bowed smilingly, bending his
head forward as though to say: "Yes, I'm the Rabot whom Blondel
married."
Suddenly Maitre Belhomme, still holding his handkerchief to his ear,
began groaning in a pitiful fashion. He was going "Oh-oh-oh!" and
stamping his foot in order to show his terrible suffering.
"You must have an awful toothache," said the priest.
The peasant stopped moaning for a minute and answered:
"No, Monsieur le cure, it is not the teeth. It's my ear-away down at the
bottom of my ear."
"Well, what have you got in