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.
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.
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