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Three men were regular in their attendance at the bedside: Celestin Maloisel, a tall, thin fellow, somewhat gnarled, like the trunk of an apple-tree; Prosper Horslaville, a withered little man with a ferret nose, cunning as a fox; and Cesaire Paumelle, who never spoke, but who enjoyed Toine's society all the same.
However, he had made up his mind, and he proceeded toward the presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case. The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen fire. As soon as he saw the peasant entering he asked, merely turning his head: "Well, Cesaire, what do you want?"
As Cesaire passed along by the cattlesheds the warm smell of living beasts asleep on manure was exhaled through the narrow windows, and he heard the stamping of the horses, who were standing at the end of the stable, and the sound of their jaws tearing and munching the hay on the racks. He went straight ahead, thinking about Celeste.
However, he made up his mind, and he proceeded towards the presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case. The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen-fire. As soon as he saw the peasant entering, he asked, merely turning round his head: "Well, Césaire, what do you want?"
He had calculated all the pounds of bread, all the pints of cider, that this brat would consume up to his fourteenth year; and a mad anger broke loose from him against Césaire who had not bestowed a thought on all this. He replied, with an usual strength of voice: "Have you lost your senses?"
He had calculated all the pounds of bread, all the pints of cider that this brat would consume up to his fourteenth year, and a mad anger broke loose from him against Cesaire, who had not bestowed a thought on all this. He replied in an unusually strong voice: "Have you lost your senses?"
He seemed in bad humor and his face wore a scowl, and he dragged himself forward on his sticks, whining at every step to indicate his suffering. The sight of him caused great annoyance; but suddenly, his neighbor, Daddy Malivoire, a big joker, who knew all the little tricks and ways of people, began to yell, just as Césaire used to do, by making a speaking-trumpet of his hands.
Six more days passed, then one morning, as Celeste, who now slept on the ground on two loose bundles of straw, was going to see whether her man was better, she no longer heard his rapid breathing from the interior of his recess. Terror stricken, she asked: "Well Cesaire, what sort of a night had you?" He did not answer. She put out her hand to touch him, and the flesh on his face felt cold as ice.
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 old man raised toward him an anxious eye full of suspicion, and, foreseeing danger, he was getting ready to climb up his ladder when the Abbe Raffin laid his hand on his shoulder and shouted close to his temple: "I want to have a talk with you, Father Amable." Cesaire had disappeared, taking advantage of the door being open.
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