staken in the meaning of the ocular expression.
The last time I saw the Duchess de Mazarin, who was in perfect health,
and in whom nobody observed the least change, I said to my husband,
"In another month the Duchess will not be alive." And my prophecy came
true.

Stanislaus Poniatowski never married; he had a niece and two nephews.
His oldest nephew, Prince Joseph Poniatowski, is well known through
his military talents and the great bravery which have earned for him
the name of the "Polish Bayard." When I knew him at St. Petersburg he
might have been twenty-five to twenty-seven years old. Though his
forehead was already devoid of hair, his face was remarkably handsome.
All his features, admirably regular, were indicative of a noble soul.
He had exhibited such prodigious valour and so much military science
in the late war against the Turks that the public voice already
proclaimed him a great captain, and I was surprised upon seeing him
how any one could win so high a reputation at that early age. At St.
Petersburg all vied with each other in welcoming and making much of
him. At a great supper given him, to which I was bidden, all the women
urging him to have his portrait painted by me, he answered with a
modesty conspicuous in his character, "I must win several more battles
before I can be painted by Mme. Lebrun."

When I again saw Joseph Poniatowski at Paris I at first did not
recognise him, so much was he changed. Into the bargain he was wearing
a hideous wig that completed his metamorphosis. His renown had,
however, reached such a point that there was no need for him to be
distressed at having lost his good looks. He was then preparing to go
to war in Germany under Napoleon, to whom he, as a Pole, had become a
faithful ally. The heroism he displayed in the campaign of 1812 and
1813 is sufficiently known, as well as the tragic occurrence that
ended his noble career.

Joseph Poniatowski's brother resembled him in no way; he was lanky,
chilly, and dry. I got a close view of him at St. Petersburg, and
remember that one morning he came to my house to look at Countess
Strogonoff's portrait, and that he concerned himself about nothing but
the frame. He nevertheless manifested great pretensions as a picture
fancier, permitting his opinions to be guided by an artist who drew
very well, but whose chief distinction was to imitate Raphael's
sketches, in consequence of which he harboured a sovereign disdain for
the French sch