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Maupassant's Short Stories Vol. 13

Misti
I was very much interested at that time in a droll little woman. She was married, of
course, as I have a horror of unmarried flirts. What enjoyment is there in making love to a
woman who belongs to nobody and yet belongs to any one? And, besides, morality aside,
I do not understand love as a trade. That disgusts me somewhat.
The especial attraction in a married woman to a bachelor is that she gives him a home, a
sweet, pleasant home where every one takes care of you and spoils you, from the husband
to the servants. One finds everything combined there, love, friendship, even fatherly
interest, bed and board, all, in fact, that constitutes the happiness of life, with this
incalculable advantage, that one can change one's family from time to time, take up one's
abode in all kinds of society in turn: in summer, in the country with the workman who
rents you a room in his house; in winter with the townsfolk, or even with the nobility, if
one is ambitious.
I have another weakness; it is that I become attached to the husband as well as the wife. I
acknowledge even that some husbands, ordinary or coarse as they may be, give me a
feeling of disgust for their wives, however charming they may be. But when the husband
is intellectual or charming I invariably become very much attached to him. I am careful if
I quarrel with the wife not to quarrel with the husband. In this way I have made some of
my best friends, and have also proved in many cases the incontestable superiority of the
male over the female in the human species. The latter makes all sorts of trouble-scenes,
reproaches, etc.; while the former, who has just as good a right to complain, treats you,
on the contrary, as though you were the special Providence of his hearth.
Well, my friend was a quaint little woman, a brunette, fanciful, capricious, pious,
superstitious, credulous as a monk, but charming. She had a way of kissing one that I
never saw in any one else--but that was not the attraction--and such a soft skin! It gave
me intense delight merely to hold her hands. And an eye--her glance was like a slow
caress, delicious and unending. Sometimes I would lean my head on her knee and we
would remain motionless, she leaning over me with that subtle, enigmatic, disturbing
smile that women have, while my eyes would be raised to hers, drinking sweetly and
deliciously into my heart, like a form of intoxication, the glance of her limpid blue eyes,
limpid as though they were full of thoughts of love, and blue as though they were a
heaven of delights.
Her husband, inspector of some large public works, was frequently away from home and
left us our evenings free. Sometimes I spent them with her lounging on the divan with my
forehead on one of her knees; while on the other lay an enormous black cat called
"Misti," whom she adored. Our fingers would meet on the cat's back and would
intertwine in her soft silky fur. I felt its warm body against my cheek, trembling with its
eternal purring, and occasionally a paw would reach out and place on my mouth, or my
eyelid, five unsheathed claws which would prick my eyelids, and then be immediately
withdrawn.
 
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