Down and Out in Paris and London

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THE Rue du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning.

A succession of furious, choking yells from the street.

Madame Monce, who kept the little hotel opposite mine,

had come out on to the pavement to address a lodger on

the third floor. Her bare feet were stuck into sabots and

her grey hair was streaming down.

Madame Monce: « Salope! Salope!

How many times

have I told you not to squash bugs on the wallpaper? Do

you think you've bought the hotel, eh? Why can't you

throw them out of the window like everyone else?

Putain!

Salope! »

The woman on the third floor: « Vache

! »

Thereupon a whole variegated chorus of yells, as

windows were flung open on every side and half the

street joined in the quarrel. They shut up abruptly ten

minutes later, when a squadron of cavalry rode past and

people stopped shouting to look at them.

I sketch this scene, just to convey something of the

spirit of the Rue du Coq d'Or. Not that quarrels were the