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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.
Whenever the gentry of Fecamp gave a dinner they always had at least one of Madame Toine's chickens to be in the fashion. But she was born ill-tempered, and she went through life in a mood of perpetual discontent. Annoyed at everyone, she seemed to be particularly annoyed at her husband. She disliked his gaiety, his reputation, his rude health, his embonpoint.
Toine's friends soon deserted the drinking room to come and chat every afternoon beside the invalid's bed. Helpless though he was, the jovial Toine still provided them with amusement. He would have made the devil himself laugh.
And a loud laugh rose from all present. Newcomers filled the bar. They asked one another: "How many are there?" "Six." Toine's wife took this new family to the hen, who clucked loudly, bristled her feathers, and spread her wings wide to shelter her growing brood of little ones. "There's one more!" cried Toine. He was mistaken. There were three! It was an unalloyed triumph!
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.
She was struck by this reasoning, and went away soothed and reflective. A week later she entered Toine's room with her apron full of eggs, and said: "I've just put the yellow hen on ten eggs. Here are ten for you; try not to break them." "What do you want?" asked the amazed Toine. "I want you to hatch them, you lazy creature!" she answered.
And a loud laugh rose from all present. Newcomers filled the bar. They asked one another: "How many are there?" "Six." Toine's wife took this new family to the hen, who clucked loudly, bristled her feathers, and spread her wings wide to shelter her growing brood of little ones. "There's one more!" cried Toine. He was mistaken. There were three! It was an unalloyed triumph!
"All right," said Toine; "only it keeps me fearfully hot." One morning his wife entered in a state of great excitement, and declared: "The yellow hen has seven chickens! Three of the eggs were addled." Toine's heart beat painfully. How many would he have? "Will it soon be over?" he asked, with the anguish of a woman who is about to become a mother.
"All right," said Toine; "only it keeps me fearfully hot." One morning his wife entered in a state of great excitement, and declared: "The yellow hen has seven chickens! Three of the eggs were addled." Toine's heart beat painfully. How many would he have? "Will it soon be over?" he asked, with the anguish of a woman who is about to become a mother.
The customers rushed to Toine's room, and made a circle round him as they would round a travelling showman; while Madame Toine picked up the chicken, which had taken refuge under her husband's beard. No one spoke, so great was the tension. It was a warm April day. Outside the window the yellow hen could be heard calling to her newly-fledged brood.
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