Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

She constantly used the argot of French thieves, which was often difficult for the young Englishman to understand. And the dark-haired girl would laugh, apologize, and explain the meaning of her strange expressions.

Outside the city they were soon upon the high road which wound up the deep green valley of the Bisagno away into the mountains, ever ascending to the little hill-town of Molassana. The scene was delightful in the moonlight as they climbed the steep hill and then descended again into the valley, Lisette all the time gossiping on in a manner which interested and amused him.

Her arrival had put an end to his boredom, and, though he was longing to get away from his surroundings, she certainly cheered him up.

They had walked for nearly an hour, when, declaring she felt tired, they sat upon a rock to rest and eat the sandwiches with which they had provided themselves.

Two carabineers in cloaks and cocked hats who met them on the road put them down as lovers keeping a clandestine tryst. They never dreamed that for both of them the police were in search.

“Now tell me something concerning yourself, mademoiselle,” Hugh urged presently.

“Myself! Oh! la la!” she laughed. “What is there to tell? I am just of la haute pegre—a truqueuse. Ah! you will not know the expression. Well—I am a thief in high society. I give indications where we can make a coup, and afterwards bruler le pegriot—efface the trace of the affair.”

“And why are you here?”

“Malheureusement! I was in Orleans and a friquet nearly captured me. So Il Passero sent me here for a while.”

“You help Il Passero—eh?”

“Yes. Very often. Ah! m’sieur, he is a most wonderful man—English, I think. Girofle (genteel and amiable), like yourself.”

“No, no, mademoiselle,” Hugh protested, laughing.

“But I mean it. Il Passero is a real gentleman—but—maquiller son truc, and he is marvellous. When he exercises his wonderful talent and forms a plan it is always flawless.”

“Everyone seems to hold him in high esteem. I have never met him,” Hugh remarked.

“He was in Genoa on the day that I arrived. Curious that he did not call and see Beppo. I lunched with him at the Concordia, and he paid me five thousand francs, which he owed me. He has gone to London now with his ecrache-tarte.”

“What is that, pray?”

“His false passport. He has always a good supply of them for anyone in need of one. They are printed secretly in Spain. But m’sieur,” she added, “you are not of our world. You are in just a little temporary trouble. Over what?”

In reply he was perfectly frank with her. He told her of the suspicion against him because of the affair of the Villa Amette.

“Ah!” she replied, her manner changing, “I have heard that Mademoiselle was shot, but I had no idea that you had any connexion with that ugly business.”

“Yes. Unfortunately I have. Do you happen to know Yvonne Ferad?”

“Of course. Everyone knows her. She is very charming. Nobody knows the truth.”

“What truth?” inquired Hugh quickly.

“Well—that she is a marque de ce.”

“A marque de ce—what is that?” asked Hugh eagerly.

“Ah! non, m’sieur. I must not tell you anything against her. You are her friend.”

“But I am endeavouring to find out something about her. To me she is a mystery.”

“No doubt. She is to everybody.”

“What did you mean by that expression?” he demanded. “Do tell me. I am very anxious to know your opinion of her, and something about her. I have a very earnest motive in trying to discover who and what she really is.”

“If I told you I should offend Il Passero,” replied the girl simply. “It is evident that he wishes you should remain in ignorance.”

“But surely, you can tell me in confidence? I will divulge nothing.”

“No,” answered the girl, whose face he could not see in the shadow. “I am sorry, M’sieur Brown”—she had not been told his Christian name—“but I am not permitted to tell you anything concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”

“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.”

Hugh sat in wonder. It was certainly a strange experience to be on a moonlight ramble with a girl thief who had, according to her own confession, been born in Paris the daughter of a man who was still one of Il Passero’s clever and desperate band.

“Yes, m’sieur,” she said a few moments later. “They are all dangerous. They do not fear to use the knife or automatic pistol when cornered. For myself, I simply move about Europe and make discoveries as to where little affairs can be negotiated. I tell Il Passero, and he then works out the plans. Dieu! But I had a narrow escape the other day in Orleans!”

“Do tell me about Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. I beg of you to tell me something, Mademoiselle Lisette,” Hugh urged, turning to the girl of many adventures who was seated at his side upon the big rock overlooking the ravine down which the bright moon was shining.

“I would if I were permitted,” she replied. “Mademoiselle Yvonne is charming. You know her, so I need say nothing, but–”

“Well—what?”

“She is clever—very clever,” said the girl. “As Il Passero is clever, so is she.”

“Then she is actively associated with him—eh?”

“Yes. She is cognizant of all his movements, and of all his plans. While she moves in one sphere—often in a lower sphere, like myself—yet in society she moves in the higher sphere, and she ‘indicates,’ just as I do.”

“So she is one of The Sparrow’s associates?” Hugh said.