“She is a very remarkable person—eh?” said Henfrey, again defeated.
“Remarkable! Oh, yes. She is of the grande monde.”
“Is that still your argot?” he asked.
“Oh no. Mademoiselle Yvonne is a lady. Some say she is the daughter of a rich Englishman. Others say she is just a common adventuress.”
“The latter is true, I suppose?”
“I think not. She has le clou for the eponge d’or.”
“I do not follow that.”
“Well,” she laughed, “she has the attraction for those who hold the golden sponge—the Ministers of State. Our argot is difficult for you, m’sieur—eh?”
“I see! Your expressions are a kind of cipher, unintelligible to the ordinary person—eh?”
“That is so. If I exclaim, par exemple, tarte, it means false; if I say gilet de flanelle, it is lemonade; if I say frise, it means a Jew; or casserole, which is in our own tongue a police officer. So you see it is a little difficult—is it not? To us tire-jus is a handkerchief, and we call the ville de Paris Pantruche.”