The young man, after a just perceptible hesitation, replied, with profuse thanks, and in a tone that did not carry complete conviction, that he was already engaged; but when they had reached the comparative reassurance of the street he asked if he might call that afternoon.
Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of the office, fixed an hour and scribbled his address, which the Frenchman pocketed with reiterated thanks and a wide flourish of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away.
Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared, shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakably drawn and serious. Archer was alone in his office, and the young man, before accepting the seat he proffered, began abruptly: “I believe I saw you, sir, yesterday in Boston.”
The statement was insignificant enough, and Archer was about to frame an assent when his words were checked by something mysterious yet illuminating in his visitor’s insistent gaze.
“It is extraordinary, very extraordinary,” M. Riviere continued, “that we should have met in the circumstances in which I find myself.”
“What circumstances?” Archer asked, wondering a little crudely if he needed money.
M. Riviere continued to study him with tentative eyes. “I have come, not to look for employment, as I spoke of doing when we last met, but on a special mission—”
“Ah—!” Archer exclaimed. In a flash the two meetings had connected themselves in his mind. He paused to take in the situation thus suddenly lighted up for him, and M. Riviere also remained silent, as if aware that what he had said was enough.
“A special mission,” Archer at length repeated.
The young Frenchman, opening his palms, raised them slightly, and the two men continued to look at each other across the office-desk till Archer roused himself to say: “Do sit down”; whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distant chair, and again waited.
“It was about this mission that you wanted to consult me?” Archer finally asked.
M. Riviere bent his head. “Not in my own behalf: on that score I—I have fully dealt with myself. I should like—if I may—to speak to you about the Countess Olenska.”
Archer had known for the last few minutes that the words were coming; but when they came they sent the blood rushing to his temples as if he had been caught by a bent-back branch in a thicket.
“And on whose behalf,” he said, “do you wish to do this?”
M. Riviere met the question sturdily. “Well—I might say HERS, if it did not sound like a liberty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstract justice?”
Archer considered him ironically. “In other words: you are Count Olenska’s messenger?”
He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M. Riviere’s sallow countenance. “Not to YOU, Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite other grounds.”
“What right have you, in the circumstances, to BE on any other ground?” Archer retorted. “If you’re an emissary you’re an emissary.”
The young man considered. “My mission is over: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it has failed.”
“I can’t help that,” Archer rejoined on the same note of irony.
“No: but you can help—” M. Riviere paused, turned his hat about in his still carefully gloved hands, looked into its lining and then back at Archer’s face. “You can help, Monsieur, I am convinced, to make it equally a failure with her family.”
Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well—and by God I will!” he exclaimed. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whose face, though he too had risen, was still an inch or two below the line of Archer’s eyes.
M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler than that his complexion could hardly turn.
“Why the devil,” Archer explosively continued, “should you have thought—since I suppose you’re appealing to me on the ground of my relationship to Madame Olenska—that I should take a view contrary to the rest of her family?”
The change of expression in M. Riviere’s face was for a time his only answer. His look passed from timidity to absolute distress: for a young man of his usually resourceful mien it would have been difficult to appear more disarmed and defenceless. “Oh, Monsieur—”
“I can’t imagine,” Archer continued, “why you should have come to me when there are others so much nearer to the Countess; still less why you thought I should be more accessible to the arguments I suppose you were sent over with.”
M. Riviere took this onslaught with a disconcerting humility. “The arguments I want to present to you, Monsieur, are my own and not those I was sent over with.”
“Then I see still less reason for listening to them.”
M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if considering whether these last words were not a sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone. Then he spoke with sudden decision. “Monsieur—will you tell me one thing? Is it my right to be here that you question? Or do you perhaps believe the whole matter to be already closed?”
His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clumsiness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had succeeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddening slightly, dropped into his chair again, and signed to the young man to be seated.
“I beg your pardon: but why isn’t the matter closed?”
M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish. “You do, then, agree with the rest of the family that, in face of the new proposals I have brought, it is hardly possible for Madame Olenska not to return to her husband?”
“Good God!” Archer exclaimed; and his visitor gave out a low murmur of confirmation.
“Before seeing her, I saw—at Count Olenska’s request—Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I had several talks before going to Boston. I understand that he represents his mother’s view; and that Mrs. Manson Mingott’s influence is great throughout her family.”
Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging to the edge of a sliding precipice. The discovery that he had been excluded from a share in these negotiations, and even from the knowledge that they were on foot, caused him a surprise hardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what he was learning. He saw in a flash that if the family had ceased to consult him it was because some deep tribal instinct warned them that he was no longer on their side; and he recalled, with a start of comprehension, a remark of May’s during their drive home from Mrs. Manson Mingott’s on the day of the Archery Meeting: “Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happier with her husband.”
Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archer remembered his indignant exclamation, and the fact that since then his wife had never named Madame Olenska to him. Her careless allusion had no doubt been the straw held up to see which way the wind blew; the result had been reported to the family, and thereafter Archer had been tacitly omitted from their counsels. He admired the tribal discipline which made May bow to this decision. She would not have done so, he knew, had her conscience protested; but she probably shared the family view that Madame Olenska would be better off as an unhappy wife than as a separated one, and that there was no use in discussing the case with Newland, who had an awkward way of suddenly not seeming to take the most fundamental things for granted.
Archer looked up and met his visitor’s anxious gaze. “Don’t you know, Monsieur—is it possible you don’t know—that the family begin to doubt if they have the right to advise the Countess to refuse her husband’s last proposals?”
“The proposals you brought?”
“The proposals I brought.”
It was on Archer’s lips to exclaim that whatever he knew or did not know was no concern of M. Riviere’s; but something in the humble and yet courageous tenacity of M. Riviere’s gaze made him reject this conclusion, and he met the young man’s question with another. “What is your object in speaking to me of this?”
He had not to wait a moment for the answer. “To beg you, Monsieur—to beg you with all the force I’m capable of—not to let her go back.—Oh, don’t let her!” M. Riviere exclaimed.
&n
bsp; Archer looked at him with increasing astonishment. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his distress or the strength of his determination: he had evidently resolved to let everything go by the board but the supreme need of thus putting himself on record. Archer considered.
“May I ask,” he said at length, “if this is the line you took with the Countess Olenska?”
M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter. “No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in good faith. I really believed—for reasons I need not trouble you with—that it would be better for Madame Olenska to recover her situation, her fortune, the social consideration that her husband’s standing gives her.”
“So I supposed: you could hardly have accepted such a mission otherwise.”
“I should not have accepted it.”
“Well, then—?” Archer paused again, and their eyes met in another protracted scrutiny.
“Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I had listened to her, I knew she was better off here.”
“You knew—?”
“Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully: I put the Count’s arguments, I stated his offers, without adding any comment of my own. The Countess was good enough to listen patiently; she carried her goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently.”
“May I ask what led to this change?”
“Simply seeing the change in HER,” M. Riviere replied.
“The change in her? Then you knew her before?”
The young man’s colour again rose. “I used to see her in her husband’s house. I have known Count Olenska for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission.”
Archer’s gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent.
“The change—what sort of a change?”
“Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!” M. Riviere paused. “Tenez—the discovery, I suppose, of what I’d never thought of before: that she’s an American. And that if you’re an American of HER kind—of your kind—things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and- take—become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska’s relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband’s wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life.” M. Riviere paused, and then added: “Whereas it’s far from being as simple as that.”
Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could not trust himself to speak. During this interval he heard M. Riviere’s chair pushed back, and was aware that the young man had risen. When he glanced up again he saw that his visitor was as moved as himself.
“Thank you,” Archer said simply.
“There’s nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it is I, rather—” M. Riviere broke off, as if speech for him too were difficult. “I should like, though,” he continued in a firmer voice, “to add one thing. You asked me if I was in Count Olenska’s employ. I am at this moment: I returned to him, a few months ago, for reasons of private necessity such as may happen to any one who has persons, ill and older persons, dependent on him. But from the moment that I have taken the step of coming here to say these things to you I consider myself discharged, and I shall tell him so on my return, and give him the reasons. That’s all, Monsieur.”
M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step.
“Thank you,” Archer said again, as their hands met.
Distraught at all that he had learned, Newland took refuge by retreating to the private quarters of his home. How could he have been so blind? Manipulated? His temper rose. To be deceived by one’s own family was nothing short of humiliating. And at this moment, May, his wife, was nowhere to be seen, unaware that he needed her comfort. And now the discussion with Riviere about Ellen. Everything had become so complicated.
A light rapping came upon the door.
Newland glanced toward the door and grunted some semblance of a directive to enter. The latch turned slowly, and the door opened a few inches.
“Sir?” the chambermaid Miranda said softly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’ve brought you some tea, sir.”
Newland motioned for her to come inside the room, turned toward the window, and waited for her to go. But she did not leave after preparing the service. She slinked up behind him and placed her hands on the small of his back.
He turned to her. “Miranda, not today.”
“You should allow me to assist you, sir. I see you are quite disturbed.”
He stiffened.
“I have known you for many years now,” she said. “And you are quite aware how I can ease your tension. Let me rub your shoulders.” She urged him toward his lounge chair, and when he was sitting comfortably, she removed his shoes, propped up his legs, and took off his shirt.
When he felt her fingers begin to massage his toes, Newland instantly calmed. She worked on his feet first before her nurturing hands moved upward—legs, arms, and finally shoulders. He closed his eyes and let the tension of his meeting with the Frenchman drift away to more pleasant thoughts of the Countess. He told himself to remember only those thoughts of making love to his Ellen. Before long, he was dozing, only to wake to the sight of Miranda standing before him naked. But what made his eyes widen in shock was that the other chambermaid, the young Anne, was also before him, equally nude. The lusty wenches had removed his own clothing and now his member was stiffening despite himself.
“What’s happened here?” he said. “I feel that I have been deceived again today.” Although his mood instantly lightened when he saw the anticipation in the women’s eyes. “But I dare say,” he said, clearing his throat. “This is a delightful deception.
Anne was situated on her knees between his legs, and she began swirling her tongue around the crown of his manhood, which had now fully stiffened from her luscious touch. Despite her inexperience, the young woman was good, he thought. Miranda stood beside the chair with a knee lifted upon the arm of it. Her legs were opened wide, and she was caressing her womanhood, giving him a wonderful show.
“To please you, Sir,” Miranda said, smiling wickedly. “But I must admit, it pleases me as well. Very much.”
“Are we quite alone?” he said. “My wife …”
“Yes, the mistress has gone out,” Miranda said. “And I am not sure she would mind us attending to your needs. We took care of hers two hours ago. I must say that Mrs. Welland enjoys attention to her forbidden door.”
Anne giggled. Newland wondered at this. His May was at times a more passionate woman than he gave her credit for, though not nearly as passionate as Ellen … or was she? But the feeling of Anne’s mouth on his shaft soon made these thoughts flee from his brain. It was nice to have passion without obligation.
Newland was still groggy for having fallen asleep in the day, but with the pleasure the servants were giving him, he felt himself rising to their affection. But just as easily as he had forced the thoughts of the other women out of his mind, they reappeared. He thought of the Countess again and how satisfying her touch was, and with that, he was determined to play with the maids, and if need be, fantasize about the woman who impassioned him the greatest.
Miranda removed her hand from herself and brought it to Newland’s lips. He opened his mouth and let her glide her fingers inside, so that he could taste the cream she had readied for him. The perfumed scent of her passion, one he had come to know well over the years of her devotion to him
, had the immediate effect of further arousing him.
Anne continued to lick his staff, and when he ground his hips desirously, she took the full crown into her mouth and began to suck. Miranda hopped on the chair and straddled him. She pulled her petals open to him and exposed her vermillion orchid for his pleasure. Her female aroma wafted upward, stiffening his member even further.
Newland brought his hand to her feminine folds and began sliding his fingers through her moist passion. Miranda moaned and undulated her hips, letting him touch her freely. She pressed one of her breasts to his mouth, and he eagerly took it, rolling his tongue around the flesh before pulling forward to suck the large, hard nipple. With his other hand, he grasped the other breast, massaged it, and then squeezed the tip. Unrestrained, Miranda purred wildly as he continued to pleasure her more.
He slid two fingers inside her buttery sheath, circled them around, and then drummed them in and out. “Let me inside of you,” he said, and then waited for Miranda to dismount, and Anne to withdraw. “On the table.”
Miranda positioned herself across the writing desk and opened her legs wide.
“Anne, stand over her,” he said, and so Anne stood on the table, straddled Miranda, and spread open her legs.
Newland reached to feel inside Anne’s slick sheath, strummed his fingers in her, and then tasted her cream. Then he returned his hand to her orchid, and with his other hand found Miranda’s sheath, which was positively deluged with lust. In perfect synchronicity, he drummed them both to the same beat. Both maids moaned lustfully without any inhibition whatsoever. A moment later, he found their pearls with his thumbs and began to heighten the intensity of their pleasure, while also continuing to dip his fingers into their saucy butter.
When he had played enough, he removed his fingers from Miranda’s sheath, neared her, and then thrust his cock inside, all the while letting his fingers glide through Anne’s cream. He worked his cock hungrily through Miranda’s chamber, trying to find the satisfaction that he needed. He felt positively bestial, and the only thing that mattered was satisfying his primal needs. He leaned forward, clasped Anne’s bottom, and began licking her orchid as he continued to thrust wildly, serving his lustful desires.
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