The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this; for he tried to fancy that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of the warmest little admirers possible; and to console him somewhat, the magician told him that his real shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as soon as he should appear in it, all the beauties in Paris would be at his feet. But how to regain it? ‘Oh, for one minute of that beauty!’ cried the little man; ‘what would he not give to appear under that enchanting form!’ The magician here-upon waved his stick over his head, pronounced some awful magical words, and twisted him round three times; at the third twist, the men in company seemed struck with astonishment and envy, the ladies clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody declared his beauty to be supernatural. Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. ‘Fool!’ said the magician; ‘do you suppose that _you_ can see the change? My power to render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even than you are, extends only to others, not to you. You may look a thousand times in the glass, and you will only see those deformed limbs and disgusting features with which devilish malice has disguised you.’ Poor little Poinsinet looked, and came back in tears. ‘But,’ resumed the magician,--‘ha, ha, ha!--_I_ know _a_ way in which to disappoint the machinations of these fiendish magi.’ ‘Oh, my benefactor!--my great master!--for heaven’s sake tell it!’ gasped Poinsinet. ‘Look you--it is this. A prey to enchantment and demoniac art all your life long, you have lived until your present age perfectly satisfied; nay, absolutely vain of a person the most singularly hideous that ever walked the earth!’ ‘_Is_ it?’ whispered Poinsinet. ‘Indeed, and indeed, I didn’t think it so bad!’ ‘He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it!’ roared the magician. ‘Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! I have no reason to tell thee now that thy form is monstrous, that children cry, that cowards turn pale, that teeming matrons shudder to behold it. It is not thy fault that thou art thus ungainly: but wherefore so blind? wherefore so conceited of thyself? I tell thee, Poinsinet, that over every fresh instance of thy vanity the hostile enchanters rejoice and triumph. As long as thou art blindly satisfied with thyself; as long as thou pretendest, in thy present odious shape, to win the love of aught above a negress; nay, further still, until thou hast learned to regard that face, as others do, with the most intolerable horror and disgust, to abuse it when thou seest it, to despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in which the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest hatred and scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it.’