"Yes, she was," said Raphael--"Barbara O'Flaharty."
"Well, you are the sole heir of Major O'Flaharty, who died last August at Calcutta, leaving a fortune of six millions."
"An incalculable fortune," said Emile. Raphael spread out the skin upon the napkin. He shuddered violently on seeing a slight margin between the pencil-line on the napkin and the edge of the skin.
"What's the matter?" said the notary. "He has got a fortune very cheaply."
"Hold him up," said some one. "The joy will kill him."
A ghostly whiteness spread over the face of the happy heir. He had seen Death! He stared at the shrunken skin and the merciless outline on the napkin, and a feeling of horror came over him. The whole world was his; he could have all things. But at what a cost!
"Do you wish for some asparagus, sir?" said, a waiter.
"I wish for nothing!" shrieked Raphael. And he fled from the banquet.
"So," he said, when he was at last alone, "in this enlightened age, when science has stripped the very stars of their secrets, here am I frightened out of my senses by an old piece of wild ass's skin. To-morrow I will have it examined by Planchette, and put an end to this mad fancy."
Planchette, the celebrated professor of mechanics, treated the thing as a joke.