According to his account, there could be no worse torture than that icy cold.

And then too, as he put it, the water was scarcely inviting; for, through fear lest the output of the source should not suffice, the Fathers of the Grotto only allowed the water of the baths to be changed twice a day.

And nearly a hundred patients being dipped in the same water, it can be imagined what a terrible soup the latter at last became.

All manner of things were found in it, so that it was like a frightful _consomme_ of all ailments, a field of cultivation for every kind of poisonous germ, a quintessence of the most dreaded contagious diseases; the miraculous feature of it all being that men should emerge alive from their immersion in such filth.
"Gently, gently," repeated M.Sabathier to Pierre and the Marquis, who had taken hold of him under the hips in order to carry him to the bath.
And he gazed with childlike terror at that thick, livid water on which floated so many greasy, nauseating patches of scum.

However, his dread of the cold was so great that he preferred the polluted baths of the afternoon, since all the bodies that were dipped in the water during the early part of the day ended by slightly warming it.
"We will let you slide down the steps," exclaimed the Marquis in an undertone; and then he instructed Pierre to hold the patient with all his strength under the arm-pits.
"Have no fear," replied the priest; "I will not let go." M.Sabathier was then slowly lowered.