“I never saw one in a bed but O my God, it’s just as bad in this bed as the other, how they do bite and the smell is awful. No I don’t mind, Mrs. Rabb. No, I don’t mind but look at that one — O God Fayne, have you had — actually had practice — grr — how horrible — I shall be sick, vomit — horrible. O Clara how could she. And he walked as fast as a horse Fayne said.” Fayne had said the bed-bug walked as fast as a horse and it did rather, climbing the enormous peaks of the stiff rumpled sheet, climbing, tight and fast about his business, rather American, rather Chicago, going on and on, not minding anything. You would think the Mont Blanc of the bed edge where she had squirmed fastidiously a moment since would be his absolute Waterloo, his to be more exact across the Alps lies Italy or was it the other way round, Hannibal rushing up to the Alp that looked insurmountable. This was a veritable Hannibal. But how fast he did walk. Fayne was right. He was walking as fast as a horse. “O Fayne — splendid — I mean horrible — O Fayne — how could you, but how splendid of you like putting your own worm on the hook or pulling your own fish off, takes some kind of grit to smash a bed-bug, what were you saying Clara? But it wasn’t my fault. You should have told me Madame Dupont told us to ask for whatever you said she told of to ask for when you told me to ask for new rooms and where is it? Haven t you got it written down somewhere.”
“The thing to do is to put on all the lights.” “Well, Pauline, Paulet” (Clara would call Fayne, Paulet) “they drag in the mosquitoes and June bugs from outside.” “But they may not have, we don’t know, Mrs. Rabb mosquitoes and June bugs in France, anyhow the peril from within the city, I think is greater than without.” “Its not a thing, Hermione, to laugh at.” “I didn’t. I wasn’t. I mean it is so funny. don’t, don’t please take it so hard, Clara.” “But what to you — is — funny — to — us — is — simply—” “O I know—” Hermione had heard all this before from Clara. “I know Clara. It’s serious. And really I’m not really thinking it funny. But if you will find out what I am to ask for, I’ll go row them again. Don’t get depressed Clara. It will soon be daylight and what an elegant little bug really. He is really no worse than a lady bug, you know fly away home. Lets forget that he is a viper, a monster of obscenity (for he is really). Lets forget he is a very devil and try to think of him as a lady-bird fly away home. You know how tiny and clean they look on a huge cabbage rose. My grandmother used to call them ribbon-roses, not cabbage roses, but the little almost wild ones that grew over the little old—place—at the back of their garden where we used much rather go than to the proper bathroom. Yes, do laugh. Ribbon roses. We can’t afford to be frantic. He’s only a sort of filthy lady-bug gone wrong, turned into a bed bug. Gods ways are inscrutable. No, I’m not hysterical, Josepha. I can’t possibly wake them at half past three in the morning though our clock is a half hour fast, didn’t I tell you. There the chimes again — Christ in Heaven — Christ in Heaven— No, no, no. I’m not being irreligious. Its the tune all the chimes say. Listen to it. In Rouen. All the church towers in Rouen say that simply. Christ in Heaven — Christ in Heav-en (you have to measure it out a little for yourself to suit each hour) keep Jeanne d’Arc safe for — ever. You have to measure it, make it Jeannedarc sometimes and Jean-nne-d-d-d-Arc other times to get the rhythm but you can see how it will work. Have you got the note book but why after all, that was easy enough. De fer. Iron beds, I suppose she meant. I don’t suppose they like these new fangled iron beds. Poor darlings. All collected, concentrated in our picturesque big bedroom. And I don’t think we can stay here for ever anyway. Yes. I think you’re right. We might as well pack now. O — O—O. Tired. Tired. But what Heaven. We’ll see the sun-rise — over — Rouen.”