The Contessa

My appointment with the Contessa was at four bells, so at exactly four bells I rang at her front door. The manservant who answered had an excellent manner of hiding his thoughts - a student of humanity such as myself can easily determine a man’s thoughts by examining his face, posture, and the like - and any servant of the Contessa’s who couldn’t hide their thoughts would not stay long in her service.

“Whom might I announce, sir?” he asked.

“Jack Bastard.”

He actually reacted momentarily to my name, gratifying my sense of the perverse.

He admitted me and escorted me to a drawing room. I amused myself by examining the artwork the Contessa had hanging on her walls. She had several excellent copies of some minor works of the Masters, and one that I was almost sure was real. As the clock struck the half-hour, the Contessa entered the room.

She was striking, of course. Beauty, grace, style, all would fall short of accuracy. As a demimondaine, she was educated, charming, fashionable, erudite, and circumspect. In Paris, she was renowned for having several men of true power amongst her clients. She graced many an arm and cultivated many an influential admirer. Here in London, she had Members of Parliament vying for her company and even, it was said, had attracted the attention of one of the Crown Prince’s cousins.

Contessa Maria Du Charme that night had chosen to wear her long dark hair in elegant ringlets, set in the height of fashion. The gown she wore was white, with the slightest hint of blue at the trim to highlight the sapphires she wore at her neck and ear, finger and wrist. When she smiled, the room seemed brighter.

“Jack,”she beamed, offering her hand, which I kissed lightly. The sapphires were quite real.

“Contessa.”

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she said, sitting and indicating I might join her on the divan.

I chose to remain standing.

“The coin in my purse, of course.”

She frowned prettily.

“Now, Jack, don’t be vulgar.”

“You used to enjoy my vulgarity, Mary.”

Before she was the Contessa Marie Du Charme she had been less well known as Mary Bell, a prostitute in Whitechapel. I had known her then. We had run some jobs together. An ugly old Lord had bought her, given her an education, and managed to die without siring an heir. She had sold everything and disappeared to the Continent.

Tight-lipped, she went to the sidebar and poured herself a stiff brandy. A quick swallow, and she turned to face me.

“Shall we do it here, on the floor, then?” she asked angrily.

“Now Mary, I’ve come for information, for which I’ll gladly pay. Anything more is entirely up to you.”

Despite their reputation very few demimondaines sell their bodies. They exchange their sparkling wit and dazzling beauty for a price. Hence her offence.

“Information? Oh Jack, of course,” she smiled sweetly once more. “Anything more will be a pleasure.”