Marroca Page #2

"Marroca" is a short story by French author Guy de Maupassant that captures the complex interplay of human emotions, desire, and the social implications of love. The narrative revolves around a young woman named Marroca, whose life and choices challenge societal norms. Maupassant's keen observational style and mastery of character development create a poignant exploration of intimacy, societal expectations, and the struggles of personal freedom. Through rich descriptions and nuanced interactions, the story delves into themes of passion and the constraints imposed by society, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of love and individuality.

• Short story

								

to her strong build, had a guttural accent, and as I did not move, she
added: "It is not right of you to stop there, monsieur." I did not move,
however, and her head disappeared. Ten minutes passed, and then her
hair, then her forehead, and then her eyes reappeared, but slowly and
prudently, as if she were playing at hide-and-seek, and were looking to
see who was near. This time she was furious, and called out: "You will
make me get some illness, and I shall not come out as long as you are
there." Thereupon, I got up and went away, but not without looking round
several times. When she thought I was far enough off, she came out of
the water; bending down and turning her back to me, she disappeared in a
cavity in the rock, behind a petticoat that was hanging up in front of
it.

I went back the next day. She was bathing again, but she had a bathing
costume, and she began to laugh, and showed her white teeth. A week
later we were friends, and in another week we were eager lovers. Her
name was Marroca, and she pronounced it as if there were a dozen r's
in it. She was the daughter of Spanish colonists, and had married a
Frenchman, whose name was Pontabeze. He was in government employ, though
I never exactly knew what his functions were. I found out that he was
always very busy, and I did not care for anything else.

She then altered her time for having her bath, and came to my house
every day, to have a siesta there. What a siesta! It could scarcely be
called reposing! She was a splendid girl, of a somewhat animal, but
superb type. Her eyes were always glowing with passion; her half-open
mouth, her sharp teeth, and even her smiles, had something ferociously
loving about them; and her curious, long and straight breasts, which
were as pointed as if they had been pears of flesh, and as elastic as if
they contained steel springs, gave her whole body something of the
animal, made her a sort of inferior and magnificent being, a creature
who was destined for unbridled love, and which roused in me the idea of
those ancient deities, who gave expression to their tenderness on the
grass and under the trees.

And then, her mind was as simple as two and two are four, and a sonorous
laugh served her instead of thought.

Instinctively proud of her beauty, she hated the slightest covering, and
ran and frisked about my house with daring and unconscious immodesty.
When she was at last overcome and worn out by her cries and movements,
she used to sleep soundly and peacefully while the overwhelming heat
brought out minute spots of perspiration on her brown skin, and from
under her arms.

Sometimes she returned in the evening, when her husband was on duty
somewhere, and we used to lie on the terrace, scarcely covered by some
fine, gauzy, Oriental fabric. When the full moon lit up the town and the
gulf, with its surrounding frame of hills, we saw on all the other
terraces what looked like an army of silent phantoms lying, who would
occasionally get up, change their places, and lie down again, in the
languorous warmths of the starry sky.

But in spite of the brightness of African nights, Marroca would insist
on stripping herself almost naked in the clear rays of the moon; she did
not trouble herself much about anybody who might see us, and often, in
spite of my fears and entreaties, she uttered long, resounding cries,
which made the dogs in the distance howl.

One night, when I was sleeping under the starry sky, she came and knelt
down on my carpet, and putting her lips, which curled slightly, close to
my face, she said: "You must come and stay at my house." I did not
understand her, and asked: "What do you mean?" "Yes, when my husband has
gone away; you must come and be with me."

I could not help laughing, and said: "Why, as you come here?" And she
went on almost talking into my mouth, sending her hot breath into my
throat, and moistening my moustache with her lips: "I want it as a
remembrance." Still I did not grasp her meaning; she put her arms round
my neck. "When you are no longer here, I shall think of it."

I was touched and amused at the same time, and said: "You must be mad. I
would much rather stop here."

As a matter of fact, I have no liking for assignations under the
conjugal roof; they are mouse-traps, in which the unwary are always
caught. But she begged and prayed, and even cried, and at last said:
"You shall see how I will love you there." Her wish seemed so strange
that I could not explain it to myself; but on thinking it over, I
thought I could discern a profound hatred for her husband, the secret
vengeance of a woman who takes a pleasure in deceiving him, and who,
moreover, wishes to deceive him in his own house.

"Is your husband very unkind to you?" I asked her. She looked vexed, and
said: "Oh! No, he is very kind." "But you are not fond of him?" She
looked at me with astonishment in her large eyes. "Indeed, I am very
fond of him, very; but not so fond as I am of you."

I could not understand it all, and while I was trying to get at her
meaning, she pressed one of those kisses, whose power she knew so well,
onto my lips, and whispered: "But you will come, will you not?" I
resisted, however, and so she got up immediately, and went away; nor did
she come back for a week. On the eighth day she came back, stopped
gravely at the door of my room, and said: "Are you coming to my house
to-night? ... If you refuse, I shall go away." Eight days is a very long
time, my friend, and in Africa those eight days are as good as a month.
"Yes," I said, and opened my arms, and she threw herself into them.

At night she waited for me in a neighboring street, and took me to their
house, which was very small, and near the harbor. I first of all went
through the kitchen, where they had their meals, and then into a very
tidy, whitewashed room, with photographs on the walls, and paper flowers
under a glass case. Marroca seemed beside herself with pleasure, and she
jumped about, and said: "There, you are at home, now." And I certainly
acted as though I had been, though I felt rather embarrassed and
somewhat uneasy.

Suddenly a loud knocking at the door made us start, and a man's voice
called out: "Marroca, it is I." She started: "My husband! ... Here, hide
under the bed, quickly." I was distractedly looking for my overcoat, but
she gave me a push, and panted out: "Come along, come along."

I lay down flat on my stomach, and crept under the bed without a word,
while she went into the kitchen. I heard her open a cupboard, and then
shut it again, and she came back into the room, carrying some object
which I could not see, but which she quickly put down; and as her
husband was getting impatient, she said, calmly: "I cannot find the
matches." Then suddenly she added: "Oh! Here they are; I will come and
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