“Holy Jemima!” exclaimed Ben. “Where the hell are we? Am I hearin’ things?”
“Ten francs,” repeated the sister of the streets.
“Now ye’re talking, baby,” Ben burst in again. “I wouldn’t give twenty-five francs to the Queen of Sheba, but ten francs ain’t so bad fer a queen like you.”
“Too much money for me,” I reiterated. “What do you do with all your money, mam’selle?”
“Oo la la ... must pay my room ... must eat, buy clothes.”
“Huh—” observed Ben, “chargin’ prices like that you must sleep in the Tuileries, eat all the time an’ not wear nothing but diamond studded gold pants.”
The mademoiselle didn’t like the sarcasm. “You make jokes wis me!” she told him. “You make jokes wis my business!” I think she began to suspect that she hadn’t made a trade.
Anyway, Ben piped up promptly and told her, “Business? Say, you ain’t no business—you’re a whole damned industry!... Now, if ya got any business sense atall, which maybe you ain’t, you’ll take my small contribution to the cause and let the next man pay the rent.”
“What zis?”
“I said, why not take me and be satisfied for once in your life. You can’t go wrong, sister: fifty thousand women can’t be wrong!”