Bond said, “Well, thanks for the game. I will order champagne and caviar for three. My spectre also deserves his reward.” Wondering again whether the shadow that flickered in Largo’s eyes at the word had more significance than Italian superstition, he got up and followed the girl between the crowded tables to the supper room. Domino made for a shadowed table in the farthest corner of the room. Walking behind her, Bond had noticed for the first time she had the smallest trace of a limp. He found it endearing, a touch of childish sweetness beneath the authority and blatant sex appeal of a girl to whom he had been inclined to award that highest, but toughest, French title—a courtisane de marque .
When the Clicquot rosé and fifty dollars’ worth of Beluga caviar came—anything less, he had commented to her, would be no more than a spoonful—he asked her about the limp. “Did you hurt yourself swimming today?”
She looked at him gravely. “No. I have one leg an inch shorter than the other. Does it displease you?”
“No. It’s pretty. It makes you something of a child.” “Instead of a hard old kept woman. Yes?” Her eyes challenged him.
“Is that how you see yourself?”
“It’s rather obvious isn’t it? Anyway, it’s what everyone in Nassau thinks.” She looked him squarely in the eyes, but with a touch of pleading.
“Nobody’s told me that. Anyway, I make up my own mind about men and women. What’s the good of other people’s opinions? Animals don’t consult each other about other animals. They look and sniff and feel. In love and hate, and everything in between, those are the only tests that matter. But people are unsure of their own instincts. They want reassurance. So they ask someone else whether they should like a particular person or not. And as the world loves bad news, they nearly always get a bad answer—or at least a qualified one. Would you like to know what I think of you?”
She smiled. “Every woman likes to hear about herself. Tell me, but make it sound true, otherwise I shall stop listening.”
“I think you’re a young girl, younger than you pretend to be, younger than you dress. I think you were carefully brought up, in a red-carpet sort of way, and then the red carpet was suddenly jerked away from under your feet and you were thrown more or less into the street. So you picked yourself up and started to work your own way back to the red carpet you had got used to. You were probably fairly ruthless about it. You had to be. You only had a woman’s weapons and you probably used them pretty coolly. I expect you used your body. It would be a wonderful asset. But in using it to get what you wanted, your sensibilities had to be put aside. I don’t expect they’re very far underground. They certainly haven’t atrophied. They’ve just lost their voice because you wouldn’t listen to them. You couldn’t afford to listen to them if you were to get back on that red carpet and have the things you wanted. And now you’ve got the things.” Bond touched the hand that lay on the banquette between them. “And perhaps you’ve almost had enough of them.” He laughed. “But I mustn’t get too serious. Now about the smaller things. You know all about them, but just for the record, you’re beautiful, sexy, provocative, independent, self-willed, quick-tempered, and cruel.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “There’s nothing very clever about all that. I told you most of it. You know something about Italian women. But why do you say I’m cruel?”
“If I was gambling and I took a knock like Largo did and I had my woman, a woman, sitting near me watching, and she didn’t give me one word of comfort or encouragement I would say she was being cruel. Men don’t like failing in front of their women.”
She said impatiently, “I’ve had to sit there too often and watch him show off. I wanted you to win. I cannot pretend. You didn’t mention my only virtue. It’s honesty. I love to the hilt and I hate to the hilt. At the present time, with Emilio, I am halfway. Where we were lovers, we are now good friends who understand each other. When I told you he was my guardian, I was telling a white lie. I am his kept woman. I am a bird in a gilded cage. I am fed up with my cage and tired of my bargain.” She looked at Bond defensively. “Yes, it is cruel for Emilio. But it is also human. You can buy the outside of the body, but you cannot buy what is inside—what people call the heart and the soul. But Emilio knows that. He wants women for use. Not for love. He has had thousands in this way. He knows where we both stand. He is realistic. But it is becoming more difficult to keep to my bargain—to, to, let’s call it sing for my supper.”