THE CAT- 



Moumoutte Blanche 



I had been long without a cat when Moumoutte 

 Blanche was brought to me. She lay, a tiny ball 

 of white fur, on the red carpet, and I lifted her 

 up very gently with both hands, so that she might 

 be reassured, and say to herself after the manner 

 of kittens : " This is a man who understands how 

 to hold me, who is a friend, and whose caresses I 

 can venture to receive with condescension ! " Such 

 a pretty little cat as she was, her baby eyes yellow 

 and gleaming, her tiny nose rose pink, her fur 

 deep and soft, warm to the touch, and beautifully 

 clean. A patch of black on her forehead looked 

 like a coquettish little bonnet, another on her shoul- 

 ders, like a cape; her tail was black, her throat 

 and paws whiter than swan's down. She weighed 

 nothing, this bundle of nerves, of snowy fur, of 

 subtle and infinite caprice. 



After a time she grew to love us, as a cat loves, 

 with no docility, but with an unalterable and touch- 

 ing constancy, which well deserves that I should 

 hold her memory dear. In the spring, when the 

 pale March sun warmed the chilly earth, she had 

 the ever-repeated delight of watching Sulei'ma, the 

 tortoise, her friend and fellow guest, crawl down 

 the garden paths. In the lovely May weather she 



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