The coach for Havre was ready to leave Criquetot, and all the passengers were waiting
for their names to be called out, in the courtyard of the Commercial Hotel kept by
Monsieur Malandain, Jr.
It was a yellow wagon, mounted on wheels which had once been yellow, but were now
almost gray through the accumulation of mud. The front wheels were very small, the
back ones, high and fragile, carried the large body of the vehicle, which was swollen like
the belly of an animal. Three white horses, with enormous heads and great round knees,
were the first things one noticed. They were harnessed ready to draw this coach, which
had something of the appearance of a monster in its massive structure. The horses seemed
already asleep in front of the strange vehicle.
The driver, Cesaire Horlaville, a little man 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."
