d POOL OF SILOAM 



207 



hooded face may peer, like Lazarus in his grave- 

 clothes, between the striped curtains ; sometimes below 

 the lower drapings, objects like the feet of a white 

 elephant may show, but for the most part there is 

 nothing to tell the bystander that a fellow-creature 

 is near; nothing, save the beads of perspiration on 

 the porters' brows, the eloquent droop of their 

 well-laden shoulders. 



I sit in one of the two dressing-rooms appropriated 

 to each Cabinet des Bains. Without, down the long 

 cloistral corridors — it is, to 

 be precise, the Galeries des 

 Princes Neufs — • I hear the 

 shuffling of heavy feet as the 

 red and white catafalques go 

 by. From the inner seclusions 

 come strange sounds— gasps 

 and gurglings, shrill cries of 

 encouragement and well-simu- 

 lated enjoyment — and through 

 all and over all, the ceaseless 

 rushing of many waters. 



" Cest bon ! 'Ein ? " says 

 a hoarse, gay little voice, the voice of Benoite, head- 

 inquisitress. 



" Om, c^est bon,^^ is responded in somewhat de- 

 plorable English accents. 



" Et via une bonne tasse de cafe ! " says the vivacious 

 Benoite. 



I know that this is the formula in tendering a cup 

 of warm sulphur water. The victim makes no audible 

 reply, and the sluicing begins again. Then the ever- 

 gleeful baigneuse — 



" Howp-ld ! La, et la ! ''^ and the twin door of 

 the dressing-room slams, and Benoite opens my 



c'est BON ! 'ein ? 



