At the terminus, as they were leaving Havre, people stared at her, and Boitelle was proud of giving his arm to a person who commanded so much attention.  Then, in the third-class carriage, in which she took a seat by his side, she aroused so much astonishment among the country folks that the people in the adjoining compartments stood up on their benches to look at her over the wooden partition which divides the compartments.  A child, at sight of her, began to cry with terror, another concealed his face in his mother’s apron.  Everything went off well, however, up to their arrival at their destination.  But when the train slackened its rate of motion as they drew near Yvetot, Antoine felt:  ill at ease, as he would have done at a review when; he did not know his drill practice.  Then, as he; leaned his head out, he recognized in the distance:  his father, holding the bridle of the horse harnessed to a carryall, and his mother, who had come forward to the grating, behind which stood those who were expecting friends.

He alighted first, gave his hand to his sweetheart, and holding himself erect, as if he were escorting a general, he went to meet his family.

The mother, on seeing this black lady in variegated costume in her son’s company, remained so stupefied that she could not open her mouth; and the father found it hard to hold the horse, which the engine or the negress caused to rear continuously.  But Antoine, suddenly filled with unmixed joy at seeing once more the old people, rushed forward with open arms, embraced his mother, embraced his father, in spite of the nag’s fright, and then turning toward his companion, at whom the passengers on the platform stopped to stare with amazement, he proceeded to explain: 

“Here she is!  I told you that, at first sight, she is not attractive; but as soon as you know her, I can assure you there’s not a better sort in the whole world.  Say good-morning to her so that she may not feel badly.”

Thereupon Mere Boitelle, almost frightened out of her wits, made a sort of curtsy, while the father took off his cap, murmuring: 

“I wish you good luck!”

Then, without further delay, they climbed into the carryall, the two women at the back, on seats which made them jump up and down as the vehicle went jolting along the road, and the two men in front on the front seat.

Nobody spoke.  Antoine, ill at ease, whistled a barrack-room air; his father whipped the nag; and his mother, from where she sat in the corner, kept casting sly glances at the negress, whose forehead and cheekbones shone in the sunlight like well-polished shoes.

Wishing to break the ice, Antoine turned round.

“Well,” said he, “we don’t seem inclined to talk.”

“We must have time,” replied the old woman.

He went on: 

“Come!  Tell us the little story about that hen of yours that laid eight eggs.”