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.

From the window of the doomed wretch’s apartments a derrick protrudes—­a crossarm with a pulley and a rope attached.  It bears a grimly significant resemblance to a gallows tree.  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.  All sorts of domestic servitors drift in, filled with a morbid curiosity to see how a foreigner deports himself when engaged in this strange, barbaric rite.  On the occasion of my first bath on French soil, after several of the hired help had thus called on me informally, causing me to cower low in my porcelain retreat, I took advantage of a moment of comparative quiet to rise drippingly and draw the latch.  I judged the proprietor would be along next, and I was not dressed for him.  The Lady Susanna of whom mention has previously been made must have stopped at a French hotel at some time of her life.  This helps us to understand why she remained so calm when the elders happened in.