Slaves of the preying mantis (English version) No‰l Burch (nburch@wanadoo.fr) Paris, 1920: a lovely countess punishes bad men (jujitsu & hypnosis). 1. I first met contessa Clara de Mantis in rather extraordinary circumstances, which was scarcely surprising since the countess, by her own admission, was an incurable thrill-seeker. At that time, the contessa must have been going on sixty, yet aside from her hands - never ungloved in public, she was coquettish despite her feminist ideals - she appeared much younger, with facial skin that was smooth and taut over high cheek-bones. There was something faintly oriental about her beautiful features, but from what country, from what part of the world she hailed, I never knew. Her French was impeccable with only the faintest trace of some unidentifiable accent. She owed her title to an ancient marriage which she seldom mentioned and then only with thinly veiled revulsion. But where had she acquired the awesome powers which she possessed, powers which involved no doubt some exotic science of the human nervous system but which always appeared quite preternatural to the onlooker, not to mention the unfortunate object of her attentions. On one occasion, in answer to a question of mine, she alluded vaguely to the years she had spent as a nun in Tibet, but I failed to see the connection. One evening then, suffering from one of those bouts of insomnia that have been my lot since the my dear wife passed away, I ventured a bit further afield than usual, to a ginguette on the Marne, one of those lively riverside dance halls that cater to your garden variety rabble, often picturesque enough, but seldom dangerous. The dancers were few and far between on that weekday night (the hall was one of several that in those heady years still opened every evening). As I took my seat near the orchestra, I was aware that the woman I would come to know as the countess Clara de Mantis had already attracted considerable attention, especially from a few unaccompanied men like myself, trying to hide their loneliness and their free-floating desire behind a flask of red wine. The woman was dressed in the fashion of the day (have I mentioned that these events took place in Paris shortly after the First World War?): a cloche hat clung to the aristocratic cranium, concealing hair which I later learned she wore short, in the page-boy bob that was fashionable that year among the flappers. Dresses were also short that year too - to the despair of men in my situation - and the one the contessa wore, black with a bold, geometric, silvery pattern - set off to perfection her youthful legs. "They're my best assets", she once told me - legs sheathed as always in shimmering raw silk (the silk of my youth, which nothing so crude as Rayon will never replace!), legs which she crossed and uncrossed in a certain way whenever she "got her dander up" as she was wont to describe the feelings that prompted her interventions. That evening, the rest of her accoutrement was black: velvet pumps with French heels, cut low on the instep with two button-down straps. and tight black calfskin gloves, buttoning at the wrists and rising almost to her armpits. Clara de Mantis attached a great deal of importance to her gloves, and the reader will soon see that this was more than a matter of fashion: gloves were to the contessa what colophon is to the dancer or fahrt to the skier. She purchased her gloves in the best shops on the Rue Saint Honor‚ or the Rue de la Paix, where she was capable of having the salesgirls bring out their whole stock while she searched for the supplest and toughest leather, the snuggest fit, gloves that would offer the best possible purchase. on male skin. During the period when I saw her regularly, I was fortunate enough to accompany the Countess on that all important errand, I was even allowed to partake of the rite of essayage, tugging at the supple leather sheath, smoothing it over her hands and wrists, inching it down the wiry fingers, up the long white arm, feeling the steel muscles concealed beneath that graceful slenderness, buttoning with difficulty the gap at the firm wrist, a-tremble at the thought that with these gloves I was sheathing a whole array of formidable weapons. But sitting there in the little dance-hall, gazing upon the strange, ageless beauty of that unknown woman, those spectacular gloves seemed only to contain a woman's hands and arms, no different from millions the world over, meant only for housework and love. The events began with a sudden commotion at the door that dispelled the rather somnolent mood which fallen over the establishment: a group of four young men from the beaux quartiers swaggered in to see how the other half lived. They commandeered a table, demanded that the waiter name all the most expensive brands available and ordered them forthwith. After observing their behavior with some disgust, I looked back at the intriguing woman. She too was watching the young louts' behavior, but while I detected an understandable shade of hostility in her eyes, there was something else as well, something which at the time I could not interpret but which I later learned to recognize: it was the gleam in the eye of the cat that has sighted a mouse. At the far end of the hall were seated a young couple; the woman was quite pretty enough in an ordinary sort of way and full of life; her companion was rather slight of frame but there was a sparkle in his eye and he looked intelligent. At length, the bumptious youths began turning their attentions towards the table where the couple sat quietly talking. Alas, there dwell upon this earth creatures whose evil instincts invariably prompt them to destroy joy and happiness wherever they may happen to meet them. One of the young blackguards, more foppish even than the others, rose up and sauntered over to ask the young woman for a dance. Politely enough, she turned him down. The man insisted . quite inappropriately, I thought. He was of course drunk: he and his companions must have already had a quite a few drinks en route to this place. The young woman's companion apparently asked him to please take his gallantry elsewhere. The dandy took the request in ill stead. Bigger and stronger than the seated man, he seized upon the "insult" as a pretext for a slap so hard that it knocked the glasses off the young man's nose and nearly knocked him off his chair. He tried to stand up but the dandy's three friends arrived on the run and cheerfully forced him back into his seat. Now the whole gang imposed themselves at the couple's table, snatching chairs here and there, the dandy squeezing in lasciviously close to the young woman, who by now was on the edge of tears. Suddenly an unexpected silhouette loomed above them: it was Her. Although she was already at the forefront of my thoughts that evening, I had not seen her rise, nor yet approach the table: she was just suddenly there. And indeed, I would have more than one occasion to observe that in moments like these she displayed an amazing ability to move about unnoticed. I believe it was at this moment that I first glimpsed the truth about the Countess. In the way she held herself, a posture at once careless and alert, feet slightly apart, arms akimbo, I sensed a threat, as yet unidentifiable but absolutely deadly. She addressed a few words to the dandy, but my table was too far away for me to hear. Intended no doubt to moderate the unpleasant youngster's behavior, they seemed merely to arouse his ire. "Mind your own business, Madame!" I thought I heard him say. It was then that the Countess acted, with a speed and efficiency that literally took my breath away. The lad had been lounging in the chair he had appropriated, with one conquering hand on the young woman's thigh, the other lying on the table. A second later, he was on his knees, shrieking with pain and begging for mercy. Yet all the woman had done was to lay her gloved hand on his, as if to add weight to her plea. And now she stood there, perfectly relaxed, her legs scarcely flexed, only a single finger held between her own leather-clad thumb and forefinger. True, she held the cringing man's digit folded inwards, towards the upturned palm, but her grip seemed almost gentle and she displayed absolutely no outward signs of exertion. It was an amazing sight. How, I wondered, could a well-built man with all the strength of youth be so quickly reduced to the state of a gibbering molly-coddle by this slender woman who couldn't have weighed more than 110 lbs.? She turned her head and I saw her countenance: she wore a faint smile, superior and subtly cruel. She seemed to be enjoying the young man's pain. Once they had gotten over their initial surprise, and seeing that the torture inflicted on their friend did not abate, his drinking companions naturally felt they should come to his rescue. The one nearest reached out to give the woman's shoulder a good shove. This was a fatal mistake, for he was suddenly appalled to discover that as a consequence of a bizarre circular arm movement, the woman had his wrist firmly trapped under her dainty armpit. And then he screamed just like his friend when his elbow was locked from below by wiry fingers clamped against the joint. And now, as she forced this second victim to rise up on tiptoe - to avoid dislocating his elbow, I surmised at the time, although now I know he was also trying to relieve the diabolical pressure exerted on some vital nerve - the amazing woman gave the moaning dandy's imprisoned finger a cruel twist and delicately lifting high the arm she thus controlled, gave him a short quick kick with the tip of her elegant shoe in the hollow of his armpit. From where I was watching, the kick seemed sharp but not particularly hard, nor did it seem the sort of kick which a woman could make very forcibly. Nonetheless, a blood-curdling scream immediately attested to that particular woman's terrifying knowledge of anatomy: the boy's body jerked and contracted as though he had received a powerful electrical discharge and he clasped his free hand to his chest, like one having a heart attack (I later learned that with a few more pounds of force, this blow would have been fatal!) Magnanimously, his tormentress finally released the cruelly bent finger, for there was no longer any danger of retaliation: the dandy was out of action and would spend long minutes whimpering on the floor, pitifully sucking what might have been a broken forefinger. All of the preceding took place in an extraordinarily short space of time. And yet whenever the countess operated - the word "fought" would be wholly inadequate, since no attack or riposte could ever develop in the face of her radically preemptive tactics - there was no sense of haste, but only an impression of sober, methodical science. Which is why the disasters which invariably befell those who had the supreme misfortune to cross her path always appeared incomprehensible to bystanders - the contessa loved an audience and usually contrived to have one - since her most devastating actions generally seemed devoid of any real violence. This is no doubt also why to be "worked over" by the countess was the most humiliating experience imaginable for any man imbued with a modicum of pride, and I speak from experience, for I too have tasted - once only, thank Heaven! - the unspeakable pain and sense of utter helplessness known to those unfortunate enough to run afoul of the contessa's expertise. But I am getting ahead of my tale. Contemplating the evidence of excruciating pain on the face of her second victim, whose elbow was still firmly locked - how, I wondered, could such a frail arm capture so completely and so easily the much thicker limb of a man that size?- the woman appeared not to have seen the third member of the slumming party creeping up behind her, oh cautiously enough - he had seen the fate of his companions - but with the obvious intention of using the twisted towel in his hands as a garrote, in the manner of an apache. It was then that for the first time I saw a demonstration of the extraordinary "sixth sense" which the countess possessed, and which would never cease to be a miracle to me, however often I was observe it in the future. For suddenly, in the silence that had descended on the hall from the moment the countess had begun her exhibition, we heard wousshhh, a sound like balloon deflating, and the fils … papa was bent over double, the towel forgotten at his feet. The countess, without even bothering to look back at her target, had dealt him a sharp, swinging blow with the edge of her oddly stiffened hand just beneath the rib-cage. As I was to observe, she often used this unusual blow, always with results spectacularly disproportionate to the strength apparently deployed. Now, profiting by her adversary's stooped position - his head was close to her hip, his mouth opened and shut fish-like, desperately seeking the oxygen of which the unexpected blow had deprived him - the countess gripped him by the neck with her free hand. and the man seemed suddenly paralyzed: during all the time she would hold him thus, no doubt compressing some vital nerve-center with the tapered leather fingers, he never moved a muscle nor uttered a sound. But now loud-mouth number four, convinced that this terrifying woman could not, with all her mysterious skills, control more than two opponents at a time, decided to join battle with her. But his over- confident rush immediately ended in disaster because his calculations had neglected to include the contessa's feet, those dainty feet in their elegant strap-on shoes: then and there I saw the damage they could cause. I saw the damage, but no more saw see the blow that caused it than the Countess' unfortunate victim did. I simply heard a dull crack and then attackers face went livid, as if suddenly drained of blood. A gurgle that was meant to be a scream emerged from his throat and then he dropped to the floor where he remained unconscious for the best part of twenty minutes. What in the world had she done to him? I hadn't seen her touch him. I began to feel a deep anxiety: could I be witnessing a manifestation of the occult? It was the countess in person who clarified this matter for me, some time later, when an opportunity arose to reminisce about that evening by the Marne. "There exists," she said softly, "a nerve at the base of the shinbone which controls the flow of blood to the brain. A sharp kick at close range with the toe of my shoe will cause nine subjects out of ten to lose consciousness almost immediately," and she half-rose from her armchair. As always, I preferred to take her word for it, and, as always, it seemed to me she was slightly disappointed. Now the Countess seemed to lose interest in her cruel game and decided to dispatch the fellow whose elbow she was torturing: he breathed a sigh of relief as she released him but then, like a cobra striking, her gloved arm darted forth twice in succession: the tips of her fingers were gathered in a tight leather beak which struck the young man first on a certain spot in the lower abdomen and again, as he started to double up, just under the Adam's apple. Coughing and retching, he staggered off to vomit in a corner, doubled up in agony and humiliation. Without a further glance in his direction, so sure was she of the effects of her double strike, the woman turned her attention to the man whom she held in abeyance squatting by her side, still paralyzed by the diabolical grip at the base of his skull. However, instead of finishing him off with one of those devastating tricks of which she seemed to possess an inexhaustible repertoire, she pulled him upright and brought his face close to hers. It was almost as if she were about to kiss him. She gazed a long time into his eyes, said a few words to him. Finally she simply let him go. He was perfectly calm now. The Countess returned to her table and called over the wide-eyed waiter, who approached her cautiously to collect his money. The amazing woman's behavior towards her last victim I completely misinterpreted; as did all those who witnessed the scene, I am sure. It was only later that I had the revelation of what I soon came to regard as the most formidable of all the weapons in the contessa's arsenal. At the time, I had hastily concluded that the eye-contact established with her fourth victim had been meant merely to emphasize her advice as to his future conduct in life. But in reality she had plunged him into a hypnotic trance! In what remote corner of the planet where her many travels had taken her had the contessa Clara de Mantis learned a form of hypnosis which I had always believed impossible: an almost instantaneous trance, against which no defense is possible, not even the most determined conscience resistance, something akin to magic. Today I know such hypnosis does exist: when the Countess looks into your eyes, speaks a few words, you are irresistibly submerged. Even forewarned, there is no way to resist. But already that evening I had seen and understood enough to know that this woman was absolutely unique. Observing that she was about to leave the scene of her amazing exploit, I knew I had to act quickly. For I had resolved to make the acquaintance of this woman, come what might. Not yet then in view of what you may imagine, dear reader. For though in future I would feel strongly attracted to the contessa, on that first evening it would have never so much as occurred to me that I might one day hope to hold in my arms a body skilled in combat techniques whose very existence I could never have imagined. In short, I was far too afraid of that woman to dream of one day being her lover. And yet I was fascinated by her too, by that frail- looking woman who was so unlike anyone's notion of an amazon or virago. In short, she was clearly a "character" and I absolutely had to know her. I caught up with her at the door and introduced myself, with I believe an air of simple dignity to which she may not have been insensitive. Responding in kind, she gave me her name and invited me for tea the following Thursday. That invitation, which was more than I had dared to hope for in resolving to approach her, was an even greater privilege than I could know at the time. Men were of scant interest to the Countess. She once told me she was a lesbian, but I never entirely believed her, although needless to say, I never let it show: even in the most mundane circumstances, those who knew the powers of the Countess scrupulously abstained from contradicting her. True, she received many women friends - and a few males as well - in her town house in Neuilly. Yet never did I observe between the contessa and one of these women the least evidence of physical passion. I remain convinced to this very day that her relationships with women were as infrequent as her affairs with men and that the contessa's true pleasures were of a more secretive, solitary kind. It was her ageless oriental housekeeper, a relic no doubt of the Countess' globe-trotting years - she was half Indonesian, half Tibetan I later learned - who opened the black lacquered door when, for the first time, I rang the bell at . which number was it?.. rue Peronnet in Neuilly. "Madame in cellar" she said curtly in a rasping voice that sounded almost cruel. Opening a narrow door, she waved me down the stairs. On the cramped, winding staircase, I was struck by an unusual odor, a not unpleasant m‚lange of incense and perspiration. At the bottom of the steps was another door, and then I found myself in a small gymnasium, whose four walls were garnished with great crystal-clear mirrors, lie dance studio. There was even a wooden bar. The lighting was bright and at first, emerging from the dark stairway, I was dazzled. Then gradually the Countess took shape before me in the center of the room. She was upside down. She wore a gymnastics outfit that clung to her slightly bony frame: pale blue tights that rose from ankles to throat, white ballet slippers and, for sole ornament, a white scarf at the waist. It was then that I discovered the disturbing perfections of the contessa's body, but also the page-boy bob which allowed me the comforting belief that she was an inaccessible lesbian. "So sit down, Monsieur, you are somewhat early and I have not finished my yoga." I had only the vaguest idea what yoga was - I knew it came from India. Could this be the secret of the woman's deadly skills? I mumbled an excuse (in fact, my watch was out of order: I detest being early) and took a seat on the sofa at one end of the room. Not knowing the etiquette that ruled yoga exercises, I fell silent. But after a few minutes, the Countess put me at ease : "You may talk," she said, her long, slim, muscular legs still stretched towards the ceiling. Even standing on her head, the Countess was an exceptionally gifted and well informed conversationalist. Modern literature, of course - she read several languages and spoke to me intelligently of Musil, Pirandello and Virginia Woolf when few had heard their names - but also sport - she attached great importance to the introduction of women's events at the last Olympic Games. Indeed, there seemed scarcely any aspect of culture, high or low, in which she was not at home. She also kept informed of the political situation and appeared to have very advanced ideas: not only was she concerned about the rise of Mussolini or the political consequences of the German monetary folly, but displayed an amount of sympathy for the young Bolshevik regime which quite appalled me. On the other had, she had naught but sarcasm for the French center-left coalition then in power. That first interview was in two parts. Once she had done with her yoga, she slipped into a white silk peignoir and we removed to the salon above, where the inscrutable housekeeper served us a subtle blend of tea. In passing, the Countess had picked up a sheet of thick, exotic-looking paper, crumpled it into a ball and sat for the rest of the time kneading it between her wiry fingers as she talked. It suddenly occurred to me that she was deliberately exercising the amazing strength hidden in those delicate hands, which I had seen wreak such havoc on sturdy male bodies a few nights before. But I lacked the courage to brooch the subject which had so aroused my curiosity. As I took my leave, the Countess was kind enough to invite me back: she was having a soir‚e for friends at the beginning of the month and would I do her the honor of attending? I accepted with undisguised pleasure. It moved me deeply to have earned the approval of such an exceptional person as the contessa Clara de Mantis. 2. When for the second time I rang at the lacquered door on the rue Perronnet, I took care to be a good half hour late. The housekeeper wore Chinese dress : embroidered silk jacket and trousers - and this evening I realized that however old she might be, she was still a handsome woman with a remarkably supple body. Without a word, she showed me into the huge salon, where a dozen guests in evening clothes had already made themselves at home. I cast my eye about until I saw the Countess, especially ravishing in a silver lam‚ sheath and turban. The long sleeves of the gown narrowed to a point over the back of each hand were attached to a ring on her third finger. Her nails were silver as well. She was chatting with two comely wenches with sturdy legs, but as soon as she saw me, she beckoned. Did I make too much fuss over the hand she held out for my lips? Her companions could scarcely stifle their laughter, but were perfectly charming about it. I soon learned they were Americans, which perhaps explained their incongruous response to behavior that must have seemed terribly "old Europe" to them. The Countess took me in hand, treating me a bit like the guest of honor - and rousing strong feelings in my breast, I will not deny it. She led me around the room like an old friend returned from a long absence. Her attitude filled me with joy, especially as I knew it was motivated by my having witnessed her exploit in the guingette by the Marne: at that point we had nothing else in common. At the same time I knew deep inside me that this was just a game, that the Countess had things on her mind which did not concern me at all. And indeed, after a few minutes, she abandoned me by the buffet table with one of the American girls - deliciously named Zoe - and vanished through a door at the back, arm in arm with Zoe's compatriot. While idly chatting with this attractive creature, I examined the other guests. More had arrived, but the company was still mostly composed of women. In fact, we were only five males in all. However, what intrigued me most about my "fellow men" was not so much their small number as their behavior. They spoke not at all, to each other or to the women, and these seemed deliberately to avoid them. Moreover, examining the men more closely, I felt they did not really belong in these surroundings: whereas all the women present were obviously of the finest breeding, so to speak, these men's faces were distinctly plebeian. Not that I'm a snob. On the contrary, I pride myself on my capacity to ignore class barriers, I am as much at home in a Passy salon as a Pigalle bar - which is why the contessa allowed me the supreme privilege of. But again I'm getting ahead of my story. The long and the short of it was that I shouldn't have liked to run into any of those men on a foggy night in bad neighborhood. As a matter of fact, one of the men was an exception to the rule, in that he clearly came of excellent stock. I even wondered if I hadn't seen him before in quite different circumstances. But I did not pursue the matter, for the Countess had returned to the room, alone. My heart, I confess, beat a shade faster, I was hoping she would again favor me with her attentions. No such luck: she went straight to an armchair in which one of the above-mentioned male guests was seated and lay a hand on his shoulder. He suddenly seemed to stiffen up. She said a few words, he rose to his feet and she guided his steps to the door at the back of the room. I noticed that the American girl, while nibbling at a delicious pƒt‚, was also watching these strange maneuvers but seemed more annoyed than puzzled or worried. In fact, I seemed to be the only person in the room who found these goings-on in any way unusual and so I resolved to stop fretting about something that was clearly no concern of mine. After all, I hardly knew the contessa. The evening wore on. I got into a conversation with a woman of my own age who was actually quite an attractive person, and whose conversation was certainly wittier than Zoe's. But after half an hour, as the Countess had failed to return, I felt increasingly agitated. Because of course I was there for her. True, I had not yet resolved to court that mysterious creature in any formal way, but the decision could not be long delayed. Since that memorable evening by the Marne I had become fascinated with the Countess and could not get her out of my mind. I had been a bit careless with the Champagne, and besides feeling a bit dizzy, had an urgent need to relieve myself. I made my apologies to the lady and headed for the door at the back, the same through which the Countess had taken her two privileged guests, and found myself in a dimly lit hall. Why had I not asked my way of the housekeeper, who was now tending the buffet, and spared myself groping thus blindly down long hallways? But perhaps I secretly wanted a pretext for exploring these hallways, was secretly hoping to run into the Countess and have her to myself for a few minutes. Or perhaps it was just idle curiosity: with twenty guests in her salon, why had the Countess gone "backstage" with only two of them? I avoided confronting any of these questions as I innocently pursued what was on the face of it, after all, a perfectly legitimate quest. I opened at random several promising doors, but failed to find what I was supposed to be looking for. Finally, in the darkness behind an other door, a faint odor of disinfectant greeted my nostrils. I found a switch and did what I had come to do. As I reached towards the handle on the cistern, however, my hand froze in mid-air: I had just heard he Countess' voice, distant but clear: ". right arm paralyzed." were the words I thought I'd heard. My heart leapt. Refusing to heed the voice inside me - "Maxim you old fool, falling in love at your age!" - I released the quiet, cleansing flow and left the cubicle. Pausing to listen again, I heard a delightful voice with an American accent. "Like this?" "Deeper ." said the Countess. Then I heard a strange sigh of pain and a man's voice, harsh and strangely flat : "Touch‚, Madame." Close by the water closet was a narrow half-open door. Cautiously I swung it wider and discovered a spiral staircase, identical with the one I had used on my first visit. Curiosity was getting the better of my natural discretion and I started down the steps on tiptoe. As I descended, the strange dialogue became increasingly clear. "Now here, at the back of the armpit . Do you feel the tendon?. " Was the Countess giving some sort of a lesson at this hour? Was she passing on some of her terrifying knowledge to that young American? The stairs ended in a small unlit room, one whole wall of which was a window that offered a full view of the gymnasium where the Countess had first received me. Facing me was the sofa on which I had sat and conversed with my hostess while she finished her yoga exercises. Yet I had seen only a huge mirror! The truth dawned on me: I was looking though a one-way mirror, of the kind found in certain brothels where they are at the disposal of voyeurs who wish to watch other clients' love-making without being seen. Determined to profit from the impunity of my position, I began paying close attention to the scene before my eyes. The Countess stood in front of the sofa, beyond the man and the American girl, who stood facing one another. The young woman was wearing a kind of lounging pajamas made of heavy white silk. A knotted red sash drew the jacket tight around her full breasts and hips, the trousers were flared out at the bottom over immaculate canvas tennis shoes, while the auburn hair was held in place by a white headband. As for the man, he was as naked as the day he was born. "Attack" said the Countess sharply. The man reached out and seized the young woman's neck in a powerful two-handed strangle hold. She grimaced with pain but reached under the man's armpit and squeezed viciously. A faint spasm went through the powerful male body, a groan rose from his throat that sent shivers down my spine and his arms fell weakly to his sides, all strength drained from them : "Touch‚, Madame", he said again in that same flat voice. The Countess smiled : "Fine, Janet, you have excellent aptitudes. One more technique and we'll have finished for this evening." She reached out and touched the man lightly on the stomach with her forefinger, just below the naval. "Here, on the soft part of the belly. You must pinch the skin deeply using the thumb and the side of your bent index finger." She took the girl's hand and showed her.. "Attack, " she said again. And again the man gripped her throat with all his strength. The American reached out and pinched the designated spot. Nothing happened and she was beginning to panic as her face turned red. "Lower down" the Countess calmly corrected her. And this time I heard that strange groan of pain as the man released her. His body jerked forward spasmodically and his mouth flew open. "Touch‚." he began, but with a cruel little laugh, the American girl slammed her knee into his face. The man fell to his knees, with his nose bleeding profusely. He spit out a tooth. The Countess clicked her tongue :"Good reflexes, my girl, but you must learn to pull your punches when practicing, this one can still be of some use." She drew a handkerchief from her silver sleeve and wiped the blood from the man's chin before it could soil the floor.. He was moaning softly. "Have your shower, my dear, I'll meet you upstairs" Janet pouted - I gathered she would have liked to continue practicing on that defenseless body - and walked towards a door that presumably led to the shower-room. The Countess leaned over the man, bent his head back, and her tapered fingers applied knowing pressure at the base of his nose. Soon the bleeding stopped. Then she spoke : "Stand up, come with me." And she led him by the hand to the sofa where she bade him lay down. Bending over him, she laid a soothing hand on his brow and in soft but imperious tones said: "Now you will sleep, I command you." The recumbent man's eyes immediately fell shut and his breathing told me that he was indeed fast asleep. It was actually only at that moment that I understood the strange, passive behavior of this man while the Countess' young disciple played havoc with sensitive points on his body, understood the curiously muted character of his screams: he was in a hypnotic trance! I had just discovered the Countess' "other power"! Suddenly I was afraid. My absence must not be noticed. What I had just witnessed was not meant to be seen by strangers. The Countess - the terrible Countess! - must never know I had found my way down here. I climbed the stairs as silently as I knew how. If I was not mistaken, all of those men upstairs were similarly hypnotized. Among the male guests at the Countess' soir‚e, I was the only one with a mind of his own! This was indeed a flattering privilege but worrisome as well. What did Clara de Mantis want of me? I was to receive the beginnings of an answer to this anguished question sooner than I expected. Only minutes after I had returned to the buffet and downed a whisky to regain my composure - the Oriental housekeeper shot me a penetrating gaze but made no comment - the Countess reappeared. No one seemed to so much as have noticed her absence. "They're all in it together," I thought to myself. But now the Countess was heading straight towards me. I was in a panic: could she possibly know the truth? Perhaps she could somehow see through the mirror downstairs from the other side? Perhaps the housekeeper had followed me? My fears were ungrounded: the contessa had come to gratify me with yet another invitation: she wished me to accompany her on a "mission" - this was the word she used, though at the time I could not fathom it's exact meaning - to be carried out at the end of the following week. I naturally accepted, trying to hide the mixture of relief and juvenile excitement that filled my soul. The Countess turned away with a little smile and ignored me for the rest of the evening. I was quite mystified, but the warmth that filled my body was certainly not due to the whisky. 3. The Countess had asked me to meet her on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building near the upper end of the boulevard Malesherbes where I lived in those days. Never did she actually set foot inside the place. As I later learned, she scarcely ever left her great house on the rue Peronnet except to carry out her weekly "missions". Once embarked upon one of these, she could not bear to break her stride for even a few seconds, driven by what she called her "demons". And so it was that at the appointed hour - the Countess was never late - the huge Bugatti which she piloted with a facile audacity that sometimes left my heart in my throat, she pulled up alongside the curb where I waited smoking a Muratti. "Throw that away, please, Maxim," she said as I opened the door. I immediately did as she required, inwardly promising to give up the filthy habit immediately, so strong was the Countess' hold over me already, a hold whose full extent I was still far from suspecting. And yet, when I had taken my place on the comfortable seat beside her and she was already maneuvering the powerful machine through the thinning traffic, the Countess seemed almost to apologize for her brusqueness. "The leather on the seats absorbs odors so easily" she explained. Regaining confidence, I gave free reign to my curiosity. "Where are we headed?" "To pay a visit to an old acquaintance," was the laconic reply. This was the first time since I had known her that the Countess had appeared at all tense. She said not another word until we reached our destination. From out of the corner my idea, I examined her. She was dressed more strictly than on our previous encounters : a black coat with a military collar, tight brown riding gloves strapped at the wrists with tiny silver buckles. On her feet, she wore low black calfskin bottines that laced above the ankles. They were elegant enough, but a bit old-fashioned, I thought. We had reached the Place Blanche. The Countess easily maneuvered the huge car into a parking space at the bottom of the Rue Lepic which had seemed far too small, but this was to underestimate the expertise of my companion behind the wheel. We left the vehicle and silently climbed the steep Montmartre sidewalk. Our final destination turned out to be a horrid little bar where I would never in a thousand years have set foot of my own accord. The Countess pushed back the grimy glass door and stepped inside as if she were on familiar ground. And indeed I immediately saw that she was well-known in the establishment - if not well-liked - and highly respected. The mute consternation I read on the faces that swiveled in our direction told me that here it was known exactly who the Countess was. and what she was capable of doing to her enemies. I will confess that at that moment I felt not a little proud to be the chevalier servant of such a woman in an environment where her powers were acknowledged. And somewhere deep down I felt. protected. As soon as we had chosen a table, a fawning waiter hurried to take our order. The gazes that had lingered on us from the moment we passed the door had moved on. It was suddenly as though we weren't there at all. My na‹ve pride gave way to a certain malaise but if the Countess noticed my rising anxiety, she made no comment. The place was a hang-out for street-walkers. These ladies were present in considerable numbers and one could also identify, here and there, a few of their "protectors." I surmised, however, that the individual who had drawn the Countess hither was not yet among them. It was not until an hour later, after we had downed several cocktails whose composition I could not guess but which were actually rather good and had in any case dispelled my anxiety, that the man in question came through the door I immediately knew him from the way the Countess sat up straight, crossing and then uncrossing her legs, from the way her lovely eyes suddenly focused. He was a big broad-shouldered man in his forties, with a way of lording it over others that was so vulgar, even by the humble standards of this bar, that I took an instant dislike to him. He strode across the room as though every man and woman there owed him the right to breathe. And it was clear that every man and woman there feared, and in the manner of the criminal milieu, "respected" him. As he moved towards the bar, the Countess met his gaze, and for a few seconds they defied one another with their eyes. I thought the massive individual was about to speak but in the end he held his peace and went towards the zinc counter. I had, however, been struck by the peculiar look on the pimp's face, an uncertain mixture of hatred and fear. A rat-faced character jumped off his bar-stool and the newcomer sat down without even a glance at the man who'd given him his seat. The bar-tender immediately served a double whisky straight up. The pimp took a sip and then, with his back to the bar, slowly began to inspect the customers. I hadn't taken my eyes off him, for he was indeed an imposing figure. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the Countess, too, was taking in his every move. After long seconds, the man's gaze fell upon a peroxide blonde with a pretty but emaciated face, trying to make herself very small behind the other "ladies of the night". The man slid off his stool and strode across the room. The petite blonde instinctively raised her arm to protect herself from blows to which she was no doubt only too accustomed. "What the f. are you doing here?" growled the angry man in a low voice. "They were filthy swine, Marcel! I got the hell out o' there! They wanted things that were just too disgusting:" The whining voice was piteous to hear, but of heartbreaking sincerity. The lady's Marcel was not, however, a man to let himself be mollified. Immediately giving free reign to the violence that was second nature with him, he seized the young woman by the hair, pulled her to her feet and slapped her so hard that she lost her balance, falling at the monster's feet. Imbued with what he saw as his legitimate right, the pimp gave his "gagneuse" a kick in the ribs that made her scream with pain. The other customers seemed unconcerned by a spectacle which personally I found hard to watch. Why didn't any of the men intervene? Were they so frightened of Marcel? Were we witnessing an event so banal in a place like this that no one cared? Or did these "gentlemen" take a secret pleasure in such a display of violence? Another kick was planted on the defenseless and body and another cry of pain wracked my ears. I was beside myself with indignation and half rose from my chair, resolved to intervene myself. But a shadow glided past me: the Countess was going into action, and I sat down: she was far better equipped than I to set to rights a situation that had become positively odious. With her customary, magical velocity, she already stood close behind the horrid individual. whose posture was now suddenly modified dramatically : his arms flew up spasmodically and flailed about like a marionette gone mad and he simultaneously he uttered a strident, almost feminine shriek. This was because the Countess, having clapped one tightly gloved hand over his eyes and jerked his head painfully backwards, momentarily depriving him of his sight, had stabbed two crossed and stiffened fingers into a carefully chosen spot about halfway down the spinal column. "Ticklish, my friend?" she said softly mocking him, her mouth close to his ear. Then she suddenly produced a short sharp shout, such as I had never heard before, directly into that ear. The man screamed again and clapped his hands to his head in agony. The Countess kicked almost lightly with the sharp tip of her elegant ankle boot into the hollow of his left knee. The monster stumbled backwards, completely off balance but managed to keep from falling by catching a table. I noted with some dismay that there was a trickle of blood coming out of his ear. To my great surprise, the Countess made no move to exploit her advantage but on the contrary, relaxed her devilish pressure and backed away. Several tarts were stifling an urge to laugh. Marcel spun to face the woman who had done this to him, spitting a torrent of abuse. The contessa stood with her body hunched slightly forward, her gloved hands hanging loosely by her hips, and defied him. The man put on what he thought was an intimidating scowl: "All right, you old bag, I warned you not to try your little parlor tricks with me! I'm not like those fairies that hang around here, you get me?" He put his hand inside his pocket and took out a straight razor which he opened and brandished expertly. "You got me when I wasn't looking there, but it won't happen again. I'm going mark you, bitch. you won't come f..ing with us ever again.!" I will confess that despite her amazing skills, I suddenly felt very frightened for the contessa, and again I made as if to rise, my masculine instincts - are we not the natural protectors of the fair sex? - commanded me to intervene immediately, no matter what the consequences! But the Countess, without looking round, sensed my rash intention and with an almost imperceptible gesture bade me sit down for the second time. The pimp was moving slowly towards the slender, elegant woman in the fashionable coat, holding the open razor as one well-used to street- brawls. The Countess stood firm, feet slightly apart, arms loose, a superior smile playing about her lightly rouged lips. When he was five feet away from his opponent, he suddenly lunged: the dreadful razor flew towards the Countess' face with terrifying speed. I could not hold back a cry of horror. Yet fast and powerful as it was, the man's murderous swipe, which must have laid open many a cheek to the bone, encountered only empty air. The Countess' gloved palm had darted up and with an almost delicate gesture, parried the attacking arm. As the weapon slid harmlessly over her shoulder, the woman's whole body flowed into motion like a dancer's. She had caught the offending arm by the wrist and now flexing her supple waist, she used the attacker's own momentum with an intention that suddenly became clear. This time, I scrambled to my feet and leapt to one side. And indeed, to my considerable stupefaction - which was as nothing to that of her "patient" - the pimp's feet left the ground and his massive frame - he weighed well over 200 lbs. - came hurtling over the woman's slender shoulders, crashing down on the table where I had just been sitting. It smashed under the impact and the colossus found himself on the floor, sputtering with pain and anger, promising his opponent worse than death, in spite of the unpromising position in which he now found himself. For while he still held on to the terrible razor, the Countess had maintained the grip on his wrist which had allowed her to thrown him so gracefully. And now, without departing from her Olympian calm, she dug one gloved thumb-knuckle into a certain spot on the back of the captive hand. The man squawked and his fingers flew open. The razor dropped harmlessly to the floor. Now, seizing the hand in both of hers, she twisted it sharply in a particular way and was thus unaccountably able, with little apparent effort, to oblige the immensely heavy man, screaming with rage and pain, to roll over onto his stomach. This maneuver was a splendid sight to behold: so powerful was leverage offered by that scientific hold, that the man had no choice: he must do her bidding or suffer torn ligaments in his wrist and shoulder. Now, with the supple movement of an acrobat, the Countess applied a new hold which filled me with wonder: wrapping one shimmering, silken leg around the captive arm, she squatted gracefully over the prostrate man in such a way that the limb was twisted painfully up his back, firmly trapped between the shapely calf and thigh. The move had caused the Countess' shirt to ride up over her hips, offering us all much more than a "glimpse of stocking" but she seemed not to mind. Marcel now appeared utterly paralyzed by the pain which the full weight of the woman, quantitatively insignificant but deployed with her customary expertise, was causing to his arm and shoulder. And now both the Countess' hands were free. She reached down and touched one of her gloved fingers to the trickle of blood that flowed from his ear, put it to her tongue and seemed to taste it! I was profoundly shocked. Was the Countess so perverse? "Have you had time to notice that you are deaf in one ear? Consider yourself lucky if I don't pop the other eardrum." she said. The man whimpered in fear. "But I can assure you that never again, will you kick anyone," she went on in a low voice, which was yet audible to everyone the bar, for a breathless silence now prevailed. She leaned forward, caught hold of the man's thrashing right ankle, slashed sharply at the thigh-muscle with the stiff edge of one gloved hand and the thrashing stopped. She lifted and bent the now unresisting leg, trapping it under her armpit. The leather sheathed fingers of both hands closed around the knee-joint like an eagle's claws around its prey and began some precise manipulations: with one hand cupped over the kneecap, she probed among the under-tendons, found what she was searching. Her arms and body moved in an abrupt, concerted thrust and the man uttered a scream more inhuman than any I had ever heard. She immediately released him, rose to her feet and stood looking down at where her victim lay writhing. I immediately guessed that this man would never walk again, that what the Countess had just done to him in cold blood had left him a cripple for life - and this was indeed what she confirmed to me herself, several hours later, in a frighteningly matter-of-fact tone of voice. We paid for our drinks and left in a deathly silence, broken only by the groans of the injured pimp, to whom no one for the moment thought to bring help. I believed I had seen that evening the ultimate cruelty of which the contessa was capable, the supreme manifestation of her deadly science. I could not have been more mistaken. For during the months that followed, I learned that in the relentless struggle she waged, single- handed but with devastating results, against those she saw as her personal enemies - pimps, rapists, wife-beaters and all the other men who maltreat women - she applied the principle of just retribution: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. What I had seen was merely the level of violence she felt she could allow herself in public. But I, who was to be her privileged spectator during those strange months, would see things that were far more terrible. One evening, in a dance-hall on the Rue de Lappe, she asked a man to dance. She looked lovely in an elegantly tailored wool trouser suit of the kind that women were beginning to wear on certain occasions. And of course she wore gloves - short black driving gloves that bared the palms. At one point, she leaned forward, apparently to whisper in her partner's ear, laying her hand on his shoulder. The man tried to pull away but I was sure her discreet grip on his neck made this impossible. Now she pulled his arm across her back and under her armpit. All resistance ceased and she led the man towards the exit. For the casual onlooker in the semi-darkness, they were lovers arm in arm searching for a quiet corner. But I was quite certain that this man was not accompanying the contessa of his own accord. Curious to see what followed, I fell in step behind them. It all happened very fast, in a deserted alleyway. The formidable woman, with a practiced movement of her lovely leg, swept the man's feet out from under him and pinned him on his stomach. By bending his legs at the knees, crossing them at the ankles and sitting on his shins, she had him completely under control. She reached under his belly and her gloved hand did something that made him scream and raise his haunches off the ground. With the other hand she undid his belt and yanked his trousers and underwear down around his thighs. Then, from the spacious shoulder bag she carried, she took a shining wooden instrument over a foot long. and impaled the man to the hilt, pausing at one point to give the object a peculiar twist. The man was of course screaming all the while at the top of his lungs. And we could still hear his screams from inside the Bugatti as we sped away. To my mind, the Countess had just committed the supreme outrage against a member of the male sex and I was still trembling from what I had seen. "He is a notorious rapist, never convicted," the Countess finally indicated. "He won't die from that, but he'll spend many months in hospital. And he has had a little accident to the prostate gland which will make the sex-act extremely painful to perform. I doubt that he will pursue his vocation." The Countess' logic seemed impeccable. However, I must confess that I finally began to seriously question our friendship - alas, for me, it was already much more than that - on that winter night when I saw her kill with her hands. She had parked the Bugatti by the curb in a high-class residential area, La Muette. But we did not get out of the car and just sat waiting. The Countess strummed on the wheel with her fingers. She was wearing gloves I had never seen before, made of black suede with three raised stripes down the back and which she wore crushed up around her wrists. At length, the comtessa did something unheard of: she asked me for a cigarette! I sensed that these were grave circumstances, which they proved indeed to be. We waited thus for over half an hour and the Countess had had time to ask me for a second Muratti. But she crushed it out almost as soon as I lit it for her: a taxi had just drawn up in front of us. A man got out and paid his fare. He looked like a prosperous bourgeois, which was no surprise, considering the neighborhood. The taxi drove off and he began walking towards the entrance to one of those massive apartment houses where the Paris rich have their homes. The Countess quickly left the car and hailed him. He turned, surprised and puzzled. In the pool of gaslight, stood a woman dressed in what could only appear to any man a very provocative manner. The skirt was as short as the liberal fashion of the day allowed, the bodice was skin-tight and the raw silk stockings gleamed over tight-laced ankle-boots. Perhaps he thought he was being solicited by a streetwalker?. In any case, he walked back towards the woman who stood waiting for him, hands on hips. No sooner was he within range of the contessa, than she, without the slightest warning, cocked her leg to one side and snapped a lateral kick. The point of her booted toe caught the man in an odd place, inside the thigh: I thought perhaps she had missed her target. But the man uttered a blood-chilling scream and dropped to the ground, rendered totally helpless by this single blow, the most violent I had ever seen the Countess deliver. She stood over the man on the ground, whimpering and holding his leg - she told me afterwards that she had broken his femur bone - and she spoke to him very softly. I could not hear the words, but already I knew that she was pronouncing his death sentence. And indeed, after glancing up and down the street, she stepped behind him, squatted, dug her fingers into his armpits and sat him up : his arms flailed but he could not resist her. Bracing his head against her small breasts, she slipped one gloved hand past his throat and seized the collar of his jacket, then she gripped the tip of his jaw with the other hand and pressed her chest against the back of his neck: a quick movement, a choked-off cry. and the man's head hung at an odd angle. She dropped the inert torso to the ground and came sprinting back to the car, slid behind the wheel and we roared away. A few minutes later, as we were drove at leisurely speed through the Bois de Boulogne on our way to Neuilly, the Countess asked me for another cigarette and calmly explained that the man she had just executed had paid a professional killer to rid him of his wife: she had refused to divorce him. (To be continued, maybe. If this is your cup of tea, let me know. I can write more if there is some genuine interest out there.)