Under the
direction of the presiding functionary the tub is made fast to the
tackle and hoisted upward as pianos and safes are hoisted in
American cities. It halts at the open casement. It vanishes
within. The whole place resounds with low murmurs of horror and
commiseration.
Ah, the poor Jacques - how he must suffer! Hark to that low, sickening
thud! 'Tis the accursed soap dropping from his nerveless grasp.
Hist to that sound - like unto a death rattle! It is the water
gurgling in the tub. And what means that low, poignant, smothered
gasp? It is the last convulsive cry of Jacques descending into the
depths. All is over! Let us pray!
The tub, emptied but stained, is lowered to the waiting cart. The
executioner kisses the citizen who has held his horse for him
during his absence and departs; the whole district still hums with
ill-suppressed excitement. Questions fly from tongue to tongue.
Was the victim brave at the last? Was he resigned when the dread
moment came? And how is the family bearing up? It is hours before
the place settles down again to that calm which will endure for
another month, until somebody else takes a bath on a physician's
prescription.
Even in the sanctity of a Paris hotel a bath is more or less a
public function unless you lock your door.
