Quarrels, and the desolate cries of street hawkers, and the shouts of children chasing orange-peel over the cobbles, and at night loud singing and the sour reek of the refuse-carts, made up the atmosphere of the street. Not that quarrels were the only thing that happened there-but still, we seldom got through the morning without at least one outburst of this description. I sketch this scene, just to convey something of the spirit of the rue du Coq d’Or. They shut up abruptly ten minutes later, when a squadron of cavalry rode past and people stopped shouting to look at them. Thereupon a whole variegated chorus of yells, as windows were flung open on every side and half the street joined in the quarrel. T HE W OMAN ON THE T HIRD F LOOR: ‘ Voche!’ M ADAME M ONCE: ‘ 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!’ Her bare feet were stuck into sabots and her grey hair was streaming down. Madame Monce, who kept the little hotel opposite mine, had come out on to the pavement to address a lodger on the third floor. A succession of furious, choking yells from the street. THE rue du Coq d’Or, Paris, seven in the morning.
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