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