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!”