"I do not get a good view of you, my little one," said the old lady, suddenly. "Do not stay there; I do not get a good view of you. Go to the rear of the room, that I may see you better."
And she cried, in an astonished voice:
"My God! how little you are!"
In saying these words, she had moved her chair, and now I had a sight of her profile. I expected to see a hooked nose, long teeth protruding from the mouth, and the round and yellow eye of a hawk. Not at all; her face was calm, rather amiable. In truth, there was no expression at all in her eyes, either kind or unkind. She must have been an old shop-keeper, retired from business. Merchants have this faculty of acquiring a special physiognomy, revealing nothing of their inner nature. In proportion as they grow hardened in their business, and as the habit of unjust and rapid gains develops low instincts and ferocious ambitions, the expression of their face softens, or, rather, becomes neutralized. That in them which is bad, that which might inspire distrust in their customers, hides itself in the privacies of their being, or takes refuge on corporeal surfaces that are ordinarily destitute of any expression whatever. In this old lady the hardness of her soul, invisible in her eyes, in her mouth, in her forehead, in all the relaxed muscles of her flabby face, was exhibited prominently in her neck. Her neck was her real face, and this face was terrible.
Louise, obeying the old lady's command, had gone to the rear of the room. The desire to please gave her a really monstrous look and a discouraging attitude. Scarcely had she placed herself in the light, when the lady cried:
"Oh! how ugly you are, my little one!"
And calling Mme. Paulhat-Durand to witness:
"Can there really be creatures on earth as ugly as this little one?"
Ever solemn and dignified, Mme. Paulhat-Durand answered:
"Undoubtedly she is not a beauty, but Mademoiselle is very honest."