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 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 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 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 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:

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
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 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