A POOL OF SILOAM 



It is 2 p.m. of a hot southern May day. My neigh- 

 bour, the dotard, has gone to sleep. We are seated, 

 he and I, on either side of a machine resembhng a 

 fossil tortoise, erect on its tail, rampant. Flexible 

 tubes connect us with the machine, tubes that also 

 connect horribly with the warm and windy interior 

 of the tortoise. A sulphurous gale pants down my 

 throat in varying temperatures, now bleakly dry, 

 now sultry damp. My neighbour's tube, aimed at 

 the prominent second button of his waistcoat, vents 

 itself, innocuous for good or evil. The baigneur, a 

 broad, hot man in shirt sleeves, has discovered him, 

 has hustled him back to a sense of his position. He 

 laughs guiltily at me, conscientiously absorbing the 

 breath of the tortoise. 



It is a huge vaulted room, with a similar apparatus 

 in each corner. Open-mouthed greybeards surround 

 each, looking like starving elderly fledgelings. They 

 croak hoarsely to each other of their ailments. I 

 am regarded as beyond the pale, and receive neither 

 sympathy nor confidence. I close my eyes and the 

 warm varying gusts play vagrant ly over my face. 

 I fancy I am on the top of a Paris tram with the roar 

 of traffic and the pratthng of French in my ears. 

 The sky is very blue ; there is a smell — yes, decidedly 

 they have been asphalting the 



" A^^ faut pas dormir ! " says a voice. I see by 

 the arch expression of the dotard that he considers 

 himself avenged. 



Outside, along the white limestone steps, in chairs 



205 



