“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.