sh had suddenly been accomplished. He took the magic skin out of his
pocket, and looked at it. Magic? What man could believe nowadays in
magic? But, nevertheless, he marvelled at the accidents of human life.

_II--A Fight Against Fate_

Although the banquet which he had desired was now set before him,
Raphael was still very moody. Deaf to the loud, wild merriment of his
companions, he thought sadly of the misfortune which had driven him that
morning to the brink of the grave. Many noblemen find it difficult to
exist in Paris on an income of several thousand pounds. The young
Marquis de Valentin had lived there very happily on L12 a year. In 1826,
his father, who had lost his wealth and lands in the Revolution, had
died, leaving him L40. Taking a garret in the Rue des Cordiers, he had
set about earning his living with his pen, and for three years he had
laboured at a great work on "The Theory of the Will." He never went into
society, but found a pleasant distraction from his studies in educating
the daughter of his landlady.

Pauline Gaudin was a charming and beautiful child; her father, a baron
of the empire, and an officer in the Grand Army, had been taken prisoner
by the Russians in 1812, and never heard of since. Raphael was moved by
the grace and innocence of the lovely human flower, that grew from a bud
into an opening blossom under his care. But as he was too poor to marry
her, he never made love to her.

Then, in January, 1830, he met the Countess Foedora, a brilliant,
wealthy woman of society, widowed at the age of thirty, and eager to
shine and astonish and captivate. For her sake, Raphael had put aside
his scholarly studies and engaged in money-making hack-work. But after
keeping him dangling about her for some months, she had cast him off,
and in his misery he had resolved to end his life. Now he had got the
magic skin. What if it were true what the strange old man had said?
Should he wish to win the heart of Foedora? No! She was a woman without
a heart. He would have nothing to do with women. Still, this skin!

"Measure it! Measure it!" he cried, flinging it down on the table.

"Measure what?" said Emile. "Has Taillefer's wine got into your head
already?"

Raphael told them of the curiosity shop.

"That can be easily tested," said Emile, taking the skin and drawing its
outline on a napkin. "Now wish, and see if it shrinks."

"I wish for six million pounds!" said Raphael.

"Hurrah!" said Emile.