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.” 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 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'.” “Well, what can you expect? Times are hard.” “Hub! I should say they were hard,” sounded the rather virile voice of Rabot's big consort. As she was from a neighboring village, the priest only knew her by name. “Is that you, Blondel?” he said. “Yes, I'm the one that married Rabot.” Rabot, slender, timid, and self-satisfied, bowed smilingly, bending his head forward as though to say: “Yes, I'm the Rabot whom Blondel married.” Suddenly Maitre Belhomme, still holding his handkerchief to his ear, began groaning in a pitiful fashion. He was going “Oh-oh-oh!” and stamping his foot in order to show his terrible suffering. “You must have an awful toothache,” said the priest. The peasant stopped moaning for a minute and answered: “No, Monsieur le cure, it is not the teeth. It's my ear-away down at the bottom of my ear.” “Well, what have you got in your ear? A lump of wax?” “I don't know whether it's wax; but I know that it is a bug, a big bug, that crawled in while I was asleep in the haystack.” “A bug! Are you sure?” “Am I sure? As sure as I am of heaven, Monsieur le cure! I can feel it gnawing at the bottom of my ear! It's eating my head for sure! It's eating my head! Oh-oh-oh!” And he began to stamp his foot again. Great interest had been aroused among the spectators. Each one gave his bit of advice. Poiret claimed that it was a spider, the teacher, thought it might be a caterpillar. He had already seen such a thing once, at Campemuret, in Orne, where he had been for six years. In this case the caterpillar had gone through the head and out at the nose. But the man remained deaf in that ear ever after, the drum having been pierced. “It's more likely to be a worm,” said the priest. Maitre Belhomme, his head resting against the door, for he had been the last one to enter, was still moaning. “Oh—oh—oh! I think it must be an ant, a big ant—there it is biting again. Oh, Monsieur le cure, how it hurts! how it hurts!” “Have you seen the doctor?” asked Caniveau. “I should say not!” “Why?” The fear of the doctor seemed to cure Belhomme. He straightened up without, however, dropping his handkerchief. “What! You have money for them, for those loafers? He would have come once, twice, three times, four times, five times! That means two five-franc pieces, two five-franc pieces, for sure. And what would he have done, the loafer, tell me, what would he have done? Can you tell me?” Caniveau was laughing. “No, I don't know. Where are you going?” “I am going to Havre, to see Chambrelan.” “Who is Chambrelan?” “The healer, of course.” “What healer?” “The healer who cured my father.” “Your father?” “Yes, the healer who cured my father years ago.” “What was the matter with your father?” “A draught caught him in the back, so that he couldn't move hand or foot.” “Well, what did your friend Chambrelan do to him?” “He kneaded his back with both hands as though he were making bread! And he was all right in a couple of hours!” Belhomme thought that Chambrelan must also have used some charm, but he did not dare say so before the priest. Caniveau replied, laughing: “Are you sure it isn't a rabbit that you have in your ear? He might have taken that hole for his home. Wait, I'll make him run away.” Whereupon Caniveau, making a megaphone of his hands, began to mimic the barking of hounds. He snapped, howled, growled, barked. And everybody in the carriage began to roar, even the schoolmaster, who, as a rule, never ever smiled. However, as Belhomme seemed angry at their making fun of him, the priest changed the conversation and turning to Rabot's big wife, said: “You have a large family, haven't you?” “Oh, yes, Monsieur le cure—and it's a pretty hard matter to bring them up!” Rabot agreed, nodding his head as though to say: “Oh, yes, it's a hard thing to bring up!” “How many children?” She replied authoritatively in a strong, clear voice: “Sixteen children, Monsieur le cure, fifteen of them by my husband!” And Rabot smiled broadly, nodding his head. He was responsible for fifteen, he alone, Rabot! His wife said so! Therefore there could be no doubt about it. And he was proud! And whose was the sixteenth? She didn't tell. It was doubtless the first. Perhaps everybody knew, for no one was surprised. Even Caniveau kept mum. But Belhomme began to moan again: “Oh-oh-oh! It's scratching about in the bottom of my ear! Oh, dear, oh, dear!” The coach just then stopped at the Cafe Polyto. The priest said: “If someone were to pour a little water into your ear, it might perhaps drive it out. Do you want to try?” “Sure! I am willing.” And everybody got out in order to witness the operation. The priest asked for a bowl, a napkin and a glass of water, then he told the teacher to hold the patient's head over on one side, and, as soon as the liquid should have entered the ear, to turn his head over suddenly on the other side. But Caniveau, who was already peering into Belhomme's ear to see if he couldn't discover the beast, shouted: “Gosh! What a mess! You'll have to clear that out, old man. Your rabbit could never get through that; his feet would stick.” The priest in turn examined the passage and saw that it was too narrow and too congested for him to attempt to expel the animal. It was the teacher who cleared out this passage by means of a match and a bit of cloth. Then, in the midst of the general excitement, the priest poured into the passage half a glass of water, which trickled over the face through the hair and down the neck of the patient. Then the schoolmaster quickly twisted the head round over the bowl, as though he were trying to unscrew it. A couple of drops dripped into the white bowl. All the passengers rushed forward. No insect had come out. However, Belhomme exclaimed: “I don't feel anything any more.” The priest triumphantly exclaimed: “Certainly it has been drowned.” Everybody was happy and got back into the coach. But hardly had they started when Belhomme began to cry out again. The bug had aroused itself and had become furious. He even declared that it had now entered his head and was eating his brain. He was howling with such contortions that Poiret's wife, thinking him possessed by the devil, began to cry and to cross herself. Then, the pain abating a little, the sick man began to tell how it was running round in his ear. With his finger he imitated the movements of the body, seeming to see it, to follow it with his eyes: “There it goes up again! Oh—oh—oh—what torture!” Caniveau was getting impatient. “It's the water that is making the bug angry. It is probably more accustomed to wine.” Everybody laughed, and he continued: “When we get to the Cafe Bourbeux, give it some brandy, and it won't bother you any more, I wager.” But Belhomme could contain himself no longer; he began howling as though his soul were being torn from his body. The priest was obliged to hold his head for him. They asked Cesaire Horlaville to stop at the nearest house. It was a farmhouse at the side of the road. Belhomme was carried into it and laid on the kitchen table in order to repeat the operation. Caniveau advised mixing brandy and water in order to benumb and perhaps kill the insect. But the priest preferred vinegar. They poured the liquid in drop by drop this time, that it might penetrate down to the bottom, and they left it several minutes in the organ that the beast had chosen for its home. A bowl had once more been brought; Belhomme was turned over bodily by the priest and Caniveau, while the schoolmaster was tapping on the healthy ear in order to empty the other. Cesaire Horlaville himself, whip in hand, had come in to observe the proceedings. Suddenly, at the bottom of the bowl appeared a little brown spot, no bigger than a tiny seed. However, it was moving. It was a flea! First there were cries of astonishment and then shouts of laughter. A flea! Well, that was a good joke, a mighty good one! Caniveau was slapping his thigh, Cesaire Horlaville snapped his whip, the priest laughed like a braying donkey, the teacher cackled as though he were sneezing, and the two women were giving little screams of joy, like the clucking of hens. Belhomme had seated himself on the table and had taken the bowl between his knees; he was observing, with serious attention and a vengeful anger in his eye, the conquered insect which was twisting round in the water. He grunted, “You rotten little beast!” and he spat on it. The driver, wild with joy, kept repeating: “A flea, a flea, ah! there you are, damned little flea, damned little flea, damned little flea!”

 Then having calmed down a little, he cried: “Well, back to the coach! We've lost enough time.”