He noted with keen satisfaction that the eyesight of the princess was considerably impaired; that the microscopic studies, for which she had always had a taste, had resulted in rendering her somewhat near-sighted; that she was obliged to look out carefully to find her way among her wine-glasses.
"She has not seen me for six years," thought he, "and I have become a different man, I have undergone a complete metamorphosis; I have difficulty sometimes in recognising myself.

Formerly, my face was close-shaven, now I have let my entire beard grow.

My voice, my accent, the poise of my head, my manners, the expression of my countenance, all are changed; Poland has entered my blood--I am Samuel no longer, I am Larinski." He blessed the microscope, which enfeebled the sight of old women; he blessed Count Abel Larinski, who had made of him his twin brother.

Before the end of the repast he had recovered all his assurance, all his aplomb.

He began to take part in the conversation: he recounted in a sorrowful tone a sorrowful little story; he retailed sundry playful anecdotes with a melancholy grace and sprightliness; he expressed the most chivalrous sentiments; shaking his lion's mane, he spoke of the prisoner at the Vatican with tears in his voice.