All I got for my pains was a stream of French, telling me how nice it was to meet a fine young American boy who could speak such good French. “But I want to bathe,” I told her. “I don’t need you now.” “Ah—mais non! non! non!” she exclaimed. “I will help you.” She laid her hands on my shoulders. This was too much. “No, thank you!” I told her. “I can get along very well. I wish to be alone.” But she didn’t make a move until I got up and actually pushed her through the door. I pulled the latch across and proceeded to undress. Everything was quiet for several minutes and I was just on the point of removing my cootie-laden underwear—regulation issue, by the way—when I happened to look at the door and noticed a cracked panel through which I could see the old woman’s eye peering in intently. I grabbed my breeches and hung them over the peep-hole. Just as I was getting into the tub, a knock sounded. “What do you want?” I asked. “M’sieur desires a cognac for after the bath?” she sounded very eager. She made me mad. “M’sieur wishes you to get the hell outa there! I don’t want anything!” How does a woman get like that: if she were young, I could understand it—but a woman as old as she was made it a mystery to me. Apparently my education wasn’t complete yet. Anyway, I went on with my bath, and believe me, I scrubbed as I never scrubbed before. Then I drained the tub and filled it up again, and as soon as the water started to run, the old woman came back to the door with her jabbering, wanting to know what I was trying to do. I told her I’d pay for two baths and for her to shut up and go away. She kept talking but I wouldn’t be bothered answering her. After I was washed and dry again I applied my lotions and ointment in generous quantities—too generous, I later discovered, for my skin was so sore in some spots that I couldn’t touch it. However, I got rid of the cooties. I dressed and opened the door. The madame was right there waiting for me. She started right off telling me what a wonderful American soldat I was, how young and clean, and she finally attempted to taunt me into friendliness by saying that she’d bet I was still a virgin. I had to laugh, as I told her, “You’re right, for once.” And, giving her ten francs, I hurried out of the place. I carried my clothes back to camp and burned them, cooties and all, in the incinerator. Then I felt clean again—until the ointment started to burn me up. Several days later I made another visit to the baths and almost had to fight my way out. That woman seemed to be obsessed with the idea of making love to me. I guess I was not very curious. My next bath would be somewhere else, if there were any other place in town. —2— Having received another letter from Vyvy, I sent her a post card with the following endearing lines: