Especially, I would say, is this the attitude of the habitue of
Montmartre.
I can offer no visual proof to back my word; but by other testimony
I venture the assertion that when a boulevardier feels the need
of a bath he hangs a musk bag round his neck--and then, as the
saying is, the warmer the sweeter. His companion of the gentler
sex apparently has the same idea of performing daily ablutions
that a tabby cat has. You recall the tabby-cat system, do you
not?--two swipes over the brow with the moistened paw, one forward
swipe over each ear, a kind of circular rubbing effect across the
face--and call it a day! Drowning must be the most frightful death
that a Parisian sidewalk favorite can die. It is not so much the
death itself--it is the attendant circumstances.
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.
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