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Updated: July 9, 2025
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.
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.
Belhomme how her little pupil had lived in a cabin in one of the fields, and how, with nothing except what she found on hand, she contrived to make kitchen utensils and shoes, and how she had made her meals of the fish, herbs and fruit that she found. Mlle. Belhomme's kind face beamed as the blind man talked. She was greatly interested in what he told her.
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.
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."
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.
Certain it is that suddenly amongst a row of indifferent names hers suddenly stood clearly on the page, and to him it seemed as if the letters were writ out in blood. Belhomme, Louise, aged sixty. Discharged. And just below, the other entry: 583. Lange, Jeanne, aged twenty, actress. Square du Roule No.5. Suspected of harbouring traitors and ci-devants.
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.
"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.
Where are you?" came in a gruff voice to him from below. He had mounted the stairs, and was now on the landing just outside Jeanne's door. He pulled the bell-handle, and heard the pleasing echo of the bell that would presently wake Madame Belhomme and bring her to the door. "Citizen! Hola! Curse you for an aristo! What are you doing there?"
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