The rue du Coq dOr, 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: lsquo;Sacreacute;e Salope! How many times have I told you not to squash bugs on the wallpaper? Do you think youve bought the hotel, eh? Why cant you throw them out of the window like everyone else? Espegrave;ce de traineacute;e!