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 always well and healthy.”
“And you, Maitre Poiret?” asked the abbe.
“Oh! I'd be all right only the colzas ain't a-goin' to give much this year, and times are so hard that they are the only things worth while raisin'.”