Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  A woman laughed loudly. Newland found it disquieting. Then the woman rose from the carpet and stood in front of the blazing fire, her back toward him. All he could see was her naked derrière and her long, faded silver hair running down the length of her back. He had not been able to see her face, and he could not be certain, but had the impression that the woman must be of some considerable age, although her physique was quite extraordinary.

  Two men rose up, the first of prodigious size, and the second leaner. The larger man moved in front of the woman, grasped her waist with his hands, and pulled her near. She didn’t resist, but pressed up against him willingly. Then he raised one of her legs and placed it on top of a chair so that her legs were spread wide open.

  The leaner man approached the woman from behind and began sliding his hands along her back and down to her derrière. The larger man lowered his face to the woman’s full breasts and took one into his mouth. With his other hand, he slid it to her loins and slowly began raising his hand until he was touching her intimate form.

  The woman moaned hoarsely as she rolled her head back, clearly lost in the heat.

  The thinner man slid a hand between her legs and began touching her intimate form. The larger man moved his hand forward and continued massaging, undoubtedly caressing and teasing her pearl. From Newland’s perspective, he was able to see the thin man slide one, two, and then three fingers inside of the woman’s vessel as she thrust her hips up and back to allow him more open access.

  The larger man rose from her breast and began stroking his large, erect cock. Then he encouraged the woman to lower her head and touch his member with her mouth. She licked the crown of his staff as he continued to stroke, and some moments later, he stopped stroking, and she took the crown inside her mouth. He grasped her shoulders and slowly began grinding his hips so that he stroked his member inside her mouth, some strokes dipping deeper, others just teasing her lips.

  The thin man took his enormous cock in his hand and stroked the length of it a few times, clearly preparing himself. He neared the woman from behind and slowly slid his cock through the length of her feminine form. He pulled back, and on his next stroke, he plunged his cock inside her sheath.

  The woman withdrew the cock in her mouth and cried with pleasure, “Ah-h. My God! You’re good.”

  The thin man grasped her hips and began moving inside her with mounting vigor, while also beginning to groan lustfully.

  The woman moaned louder and with more enthusiasm, and then took the larger man’s cock back inside her mouth. Together, the three moved as one, each vocally expressing their inflamed passion, all moving with a sublime primal thirst.

  Newland was glad the Countess was nowhere in sight; his jealousy over her would undoubtedly have prevented him from sharing her with the others. However, watching this passionate scene unfold, he found himself becoming more aroused by the idea of joining in their carnal games Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should go in search of the Countess. He glanced away from the crack in the door and down the hallway. Ellen was likely in her private chambers, he thought.

  Then a loud roar echoed from inside the parlor. Newland quickly turned back and peered through the crack just in time to witness the multiple orgasmic climaxes of all three participants, their train thrusting violently in the final moments of their release. The woman’s entire body undulated and convulsed and the men thrust deep as they spilled their seed.

  From down the hallway, a door opened and closed. Newland glanced back. It was Nastasia again. Only this time, she was chattering away unintelligibly, while waving her arms.

  Newland stepped back as she muscled her way toward the door. She opened it and spoke to the three inside the room, and then she closed the door and stood in front of it. Baffled, Newland waited. And some minutes later, with a fatalistic “Gia!” as she threw open the drawing-room door, Nastasia stepped out of the way and permitted Newland to enter. The three individuals were fully clothed. The young man saw at once that his hostess was as he had previously determined not in the room, and that she had not entered the parlor from an adjoining door; and then, with little surprise, he discovered not another lady standing by the fire, but the lady he had witnessed having wild sex with the two men. This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands.

  Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken off since morning, except for this saturnalia that Newland had voyeuristically witnessed. In one of the two, the thinner man, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the “Macfarlane,” had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.

  These three persons stood together on the hearthrug, with their eyes now fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. It was as if they had not noticed the flowers until now, or perhaps they were only acting coy, as Nastasia had interrupted their play, putting an end to their fun. Little did they realize that Newland had seen the highlights of the affair, although it was not a matter he would speak openly of to them.

  “What they must have cost at this season—though of course it’s the sentiment one cares about!” the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in.

  When Newland cleared his throat, the three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand.

  “Dear Mr. Archer—almost my cousin Newland!” she said. “I am the Marchioness Manson.”

  Archer bowed, and she continued: “My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends—such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile—how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don’t know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?”

  Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: “Ah, New York—New York—how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett.”

  “Oh, yes—I reached him some time ago; but not by that route,” Winsett said with his dry smile.

  The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. “How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth.”

  “List—oh, list!” interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.

  “But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears.”

  Winsett remained on his feet. “I’m afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis.”

  “Ah, but she won’t abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?”

  “Well, no; but I sometimes read it,” said Winsett, including the group in a general nod and slipping out of the room.

  “A caustic spirit—un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?”

  “I never think of wit,” said Dr. Carver severely.

  “Ah—ah—you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker’s. Dr. Carver, would
there be time, before you start for the Blenkers’ to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o’clock, and we have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message.”

  Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having compared his ponderous gold timepiece with Madame Olenska’s little travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for departure.

  “I shall see you later, dear friend?” he suggested to the Marchioness, who replied with a smile: “As soon as Ellen’s carriage comes I will join you; I do hope the lecture won’t have begun.”

  Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. “Perhaps, if this young gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you to bring him with you?”

  “Oh, dear friend, if it were possible—I am sure she would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself.”

  “That,” said Dr. Carver, “is unfortunate—but here is my card.” He handed it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters:

  Agathon Carver

  The Valley of Love

  Kittasquattamy, N. Y.

  Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that might have been either of regret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat.

  “Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she comes, I am so glad of this quiet moment with you.”

  Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchioness continued, in her low sighing accents: “I know everything, dear Mr. Archer—my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise advice: your courageous firmness—thank heaven it was not too late!”

  The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there any one, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his intervention in her private affairs?

  “Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she asked me to.”

  “Ah, but in doing it—in doing it you were the unconscious instrument of—of—what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?” cried the lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lids mysteriously. “Little did you know that at that very moment I was being appealed to: being approached, in fact—from the other side of the Atlantic!”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard, and then, drawing her chair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to her lips, breathed behind it: “By the Count himself—my poor, mad, foolish Olenska; who asks only to take her back on her own terms.”

  “Good God!” Archer exclaimed, springing up.

  “You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I don’t defend poor Stanislas, though he has always called me his best friend. He does not defend himself—he casts himself at her feet: in my person.” She tapped her emaciated bosom. “I have his letter here.”

  “A letter?—Has Madame Olenska seen it?” Archer stammered, his brain whirling with the shock of the announcement.

  The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly. “Time—time; I must have time. I know my Ellen—haughty, intractable; shall I say, just a shade unforgiving?”

  “But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; to go back into that hell—”

  “Ah, yes,” the Marchioness acquiesced. “So she describes it—my sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses there on the sofa—acres like them, under glass and in the open, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels—historic pearls: the Sobieski emeralds—sables,—but she cares nothing for all these! Art and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as I always have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, music, brilliant conversation—ah, that, my dear young man, if you’ll excuse me, is what you’ve no conception of here! And she had it all; and the homage of the greatest. She tells me she is not thought handsome in New York—good heavens! Her portrait has been painted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for the privilege. Are these things nothing? And the remorse of an adoring husband?”

  As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed an expression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer’s mirth had he not been numb with amazement.

  He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his first sight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messenger of Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to him to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had just escaped.

  “She knows nothing yet—of all this?” he asked abruptly.

  Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. “Nothing directly—but does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support—to convince you … “

  “That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!” cried the young man violently.

  “Ah,” the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her armchair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened.

  “Here she comes,” she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: “Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage … and my niece is still a wife… “

  Chapter 18

  “What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?” Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room.

  She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals.

  “We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with,” Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers.

  Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. “Ah,” she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, “who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous.”

  She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: “Nastasia!”

  The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: “Here—throw this into the dustbin!” and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: “But no—it’s not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill—they may give her pleasure … The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don’t say they come from me!”

  She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid’s shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: “And you two—have you made friends!”

  “It’s for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing.” She did not mention the carnal fun she had shared with the two men.

  “Yes—I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn’t go,” Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon. “But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you’ll be late at the Blenkers’. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?”

  She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and
called from the doorstep: “Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!” Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on reentering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as “my dear one,” and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed.

  Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa-corner, and sighed out: “There’s time for a cigarette.”

  He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: “What do you think of me in a temper?”

  Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: “It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you.”

  “I knew she’d been talking about me. Well?”

  “She said you were used to all kinds of things—splendours and amusements and excitements—that we could never hope to give you here.”

  Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips.

  “Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!”

  Archer hesitated again, thinking just how passionate the woman he saw through the crack in the door really was, and then he again took his risk. “Is your aunt’s romanticism always consistent with accuracy?”

  “You mean: does she speak the truth?” Her niece considered. “Well, I’ll tell you: in almost everything she says, there’s something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?”