The Countess's Client. Alison Richardson

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СКАЧАТЬ beginning to fear that I might well be confined to the modest pleasures of voyeurism for the foreseeable future. After all, there are only so many situations in which one can arrange to have fear of imminent death working to keep a man’s lips sealed, and no such lucky occasion had presented itself to me in a while.

      Then, on a slow Thursday at the brothel, an evening on which there happened to be very little for me to watch, I was sitting in the private room that the girls used when they were waiting for more clients to arrive, and a new opportunity presented itself to me.

      The girls had gotten used to my visits over the weeks, and on this particular evening, they took little notice of me. Though I think that most of them had no real liking for me, they tolerated my presence amicably enough, mostly, I think, because my cousin was such a good customer—young, rich and full of harmlessly perverse desires that helped run up his tab. One might expect that these girls would have preferred easy, simple jobs, but that was far from the case. They had all the disdain of aristocrats for the men who came to the bordello wanting nothing more than a short, satisfying fuck. Such straightforward, uncomplicated sexual urges they considered a mark of bad taste, and they felt ill-used when all a client asked of them was the use of their pussy for a quarter hour.

      It was this fastidiousness that provided me with a solution to my difficulties. There was one man in particular who was the constant object of their scorn, a commoner of some unspecified trade who, like my cousin, was always there on Thursdays. When Madame Barthez came to say that this man had arrived, the girls always squabbled over who would be sent to him. (Madame never said his name; she only announced with a severe eye, “He’s here. One of you has to go.”) She usually had to choose someone herself in the end, and the unlucky girl always left grumbling.

      When asked why they disliked this client so much, the girls talked about his appallingly bad French (the man was a foreigner—an Englishman or Irishman, probably Irish), and they talked about the lack of ornament on his clothes; but the most common complaint was the simplicity and brevity of the services he required.

      “He always arrives right after the theater lets out, so you’re sure to miss a better client when you have to go to him, and then he takes his pathetic quarter hour and that is all you earn for the night.”

      “I think he’s used to fucking cows on some English farm, the vulgar bastard.”

      “He doesn’t even bother to undress, and when you walk in he hardly looks at you. He only tells you to get down on all fours on the bed, and then he just takes out that big horse’s dick of his and rams it in, like some horny country boy.”

      “I tried loosening his breeches myself once, to see if I could get him to take a little more interest, but the stupid peasant just pushed my hand away and said that he wasn’t paying extra for any theater.”

      “Cheap bastard.”

      “I moaned once, and he slapped me on the ass and told me to shut up.”

      “He’s beneath us. Madame thinks so, too—he should just go and find a girl on the street. But he is a client of the Duke de Brecis, so Madame can’t send him away.”

      These girls understood the web of social obligations that bound together the French aristocracy and their dependents better than most ladies-in-waiting.

      It was a Thursday, and Madame Barthez had just ordered Claudette to go to this detested cheap client when the plan came to me, already fully formed, as if I had been considering it for weeks. A whole crowd of young Russian noblemen had just arrived in the foyer, and Claudette was complaining that she had been with the dreaded Irishman just two weeks ago, and arguing that it wasn’t right to make her miss a chance at the Russians. The other girls were begging her to stop resisting, since none of them wanted to have to go themselves.

      “How is he to look at, this foreigner?” I asked, speaking loudly in order to be heard over the bickering.

      The girls all shrugged and said grudgingly (I could tell they hated to say anything nice about him) that he was not unappealing, if one did not mind the crudeness of his clothes.

      “Does he have all his teeth?” They all gave little irritated sighs, vexed to have their argument interrupted by such a stupid question, and then told me that he did in fact still have all his teeth as far as they knew.

      “I’ll go, then,” I said matter-of-factly, standing up from the lounge.

      Madame Barthez laughed nervously, “Ah, la jeune comtesse is witty.”

      “I am not joking,” I answered, pulling off my gloves and my jacket. “And I’ll pay you for the time; then you’ll have double the fee for this Irishman, plus whatever Claudette can tease out of the Russians.”

      “But, Comtesse…” Madame was clearly worried about what my cousin might think of my allowing myself to be used in this manner.

      “Someone get me a dress.” My own dress, I knew, would betray me; no one, even the stupidest commoner, would mistake it for that of a prostitute.

      The girls were all staring at me with wide eyes (it is no small feat, I think, to shock a room full of whores)—all except Claudette, who pulled a gown out of the wardrobe and held it out toward me, smiling reassuringly as if worried I might change my mind.

      I had no intention of changing my mind. I could see no reason this unpopular client should not be made to provide me with some relief from my forced chastity. I do not know why this simple solution had not occurred to me before. Men flocked to this place every night, and not all of them traveled in elevated circles. I had no Irish aquiantances, and no English ones, at least not in Paris; this man would never know that I was not just another one of the many girls Madame Barthez had in supply. He would have no cause to tell anyone about our meeting, for no one boasts about sex with a whore. The girls would not begrudge me the satisfaction, and the man would never know he had done something about which it would be worthwhile to brag.

      A few of the girls had recovered now from their surprise and rushed forward to help me dress, realizing that my strange inclination was to their advantage. Madame Barthez still did not look happy as she led me up the stairs, but when I whispered to her that I would pay her double for the time, her expression softened.

      As my hand was on the doorknob to the room where this stranger waited for his hired company, I wondered what I would do if their account of him had been somehow misleading and I walked through the door and saw someone that I knew.

      To my relief, the man was in fact unknown to me, and the girls had, as it turned out, undersold his charm. The simple cut of his clothes was not a detraction. Plain linen looked well on him; his thick, well-muscled body would have looked awkward in a satin waistcoast. His jacket was off, and he had loosened his shirt at the throat; with his collar hanging open like that he looked like a gardener waiting in the kitchen for his supper. His wavy, red-blond hair had the same disheveled look as his clothing, tousled and disorderly, though short like an artisan’s. There was indeed something gorgeously crude about him, a quality all the more striking given the affected and extravagant fixtures of the room.

      I do not know if you have ever had such an experience yourself, but I can tell you that it is quite an interesting sensation to be so suddenly faced with an unknown man who expects you to give yourself to him without the slightest preparation.

      The man had been standing at the window, staring out into the night. “Tu es nouveau,” he said brusquely after he had glanced over at me. The girls had been right; his French was appalling.

      “Yes, СКАЧАТЬ