olmaster 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