"She was very pretty, I suppose?"
"No; she never was that. It seems she was short, thin, with no bust or hips, at her best, I am told, and nobody can remember that she was pretty, even when she was young."
"Then how can you explain ...?"
"How?" the magistrate exclaimed. "Well! what about the eyes? You could not have looked at them?"
"Yes, yes, you are right," I replied. "Those eyes explain many things, certainly. They are the eyes of an innocent child."
"Ah!" he exclaimed again, enthusiastically, "Cleopatra, Diana of Poiters, Ninon de L'Enclos, all the queens of love who were adored when they were growing old, must have had eyes like hers. A woman who has such eyes can never grow old. But if Babette lives to be a hundred, she will always be loved as she has been, and as she is."
"As she is! Bah! By whom, pray?"
"By all the old men in the asylum, by all those who have preserved a fiber that can be touched, a corner of their heart that can be inflamed, or the least spark of desire left."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it. And the superintendent loves her more than any of them do."