ner of observing things, by his singularly refined casuistry, and, above all, by the contrast between his professional severity and his tolerant philosophy.
But he never appeared so attractive to me as he did on that day, when he told me the history of the mysterious Babette.
He had inquired into it, and had applied all his facilities as an examining magistrate to it, for, like me, his visit to the asylum had roused his curiosity. This is what he had learned and what he told me.
When she was ten years old, Babette had been violated by her own father, and at thirteen had been sent to the house of correction for vagabondage and debauchery. From the time she was twenty until she was forty, she had been a servant in the neighborhood, frequently changing her situations, and being nearly everywhere her employer's mistress. She had ruined several families without getting any money herself, and without gaining any definite position. A shopkeeper had committed suicide on her account, and a respectable young fellow had turned thief and incendiary, and had finished at the hulks.
She had been married twice, and had twice been left a widow, and for ten years, until she was fifty, she had been the only courtesan in the district.
"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 Poitiers, Ninon de L'Enchlos, 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 Jove; 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."
"Impossible!"
"I would stake my head on it."
"Well, after all it is possible, and even probable; it is even certain. I now remember."
And I again saw the insulting, ferocious, familiar look which she had given the superintendent.
"And who is La Frieze?" I asked the magistrate suddenly. "I suppose you know that also?"
"He is a retired butcher, who had both his legs frozen in the war of 1870, and of whom she is very fond. No doubt he is a cripple, with two wooden legs, but still a vigorous man enough, in spite of his fifty-three years. The loins of a Hercules, and the face of a
