Across the river, in the older quarters of Paris, there is excitement
when anybody on the block takes a bath - not so much excitement as
for a fire, perhaps, but more than for a funeral. On the eve of
the fatal day the news spreads through the district that to-morrow
poor Jacques is going to take a bath! A further reprieve has been
denied him. He cannot put it off for another month, or even for
another two weeks. His doom is nigh at hand; there is no
hope - none!
Kindly old Angeline, the midwife, shakes her head sadly as she
goes about her simple duties.
On the morrow the condemned man rises early and sees his spiritual
adviser. He eats a hearty breakfast, takes an affectionate leave
of his family and says he is prepared for the worst. At the
appointed hour the tumbrel enters the street, driven by the paid
executioner - a descendant of the original Sanson - and bearing the
dread instrument of punishment, a large oblong tin tub.
The rumble of the heavy wheels over the cobbles seems to wake an
agonized chord in every bosom. To-day this dread visitation
descends on Jacques; but who can tell - so the neighbors say to
themselves - when the same fate may strike some other household now
happily unconscious! All along the narrow way sorrow-drooped heads
protrude in rows; from every casement dangle whiskers, lank and
stringy with sympathy - for in this section every true Frenchman
has whiskers, and if by chance he has not his wife has; so that
there are whiskers for all.
