It was useless.  The old man opposite him had a manner as deft and unassuming as his own; it masked a cynical inflexibility of purpose proof against any appeal.

“I cannot do it,” was his single answer.

Rufin sighed.  “Then it remains to see the President,” he suggested.

“There is that,” smiled the Minister.  “See him by all means.  If you are interested in gardening, you will find him charming.  Otherwise, perhaps—­but an honest man, I assure you.”

“At least,” said Rufin, “if everything fails, if the great painter is to be sacrificed to the newspapers and your epigrams—­at least you will allow me to visit him before—­before the——­”

“But certainly!” the Minister bowed.  “I am eager to serve you, Monsieur Rufin.  When the date is fixed I will write you a permission.  You three shall have an interview; it should be a memorable one.”

“We three?” Rufin waited for an explanation.

“Exactly.  You two great artists, Monsieur Rufin and Monsieur Giaconi, and also the murderer, Peter the Lucky.”

The old man smiled charmingly; he had brought the negotiations to a point with a mot.

“Adieu, cher maitre,” he said, rising to shake his visitor’s hand across the wide desk.

Rufin seemed to have trodden into a groove of unsuccess.  All his efforts were futile; he saw himself wasting time and energy while fate wasted none.  The picture came to hang in his studio till the Luxembourg should demand it; daily its tragic wisdom and tenacious femininity goaded him to new endeavors, and daily he knew that he spent himself in vain.

He did not even realize how much of himself he had expended till that raw morning before the dawn when he drove across Paris in a damp and mournful cab, with the silent girl at his side, to a little square like a well shut in by high houses whose every window was lighted.  There was already a crowd waiting massed under the care of mounted soldiers, and the cab slowed to a walk to pass through them.  From the window at his side he saw, with unconscious appreciation, the picture it made, an arrangement of somber masses with yellow windows shining, and in the middle the gaunt uprights, the severe simplicity of the guillotine.

Faces looked in at him, strange and sudden, lit abruptly by the carriage-lamps.  Somebody—­doubtless a student—­peered and recognized him.  “Good morning, maitre,” he said, and was gone.  Maitre—­master!  Men did him honor in so naming him, gave him rank, deferred to him.  But he acknowledged life for his master, himself for its pupil and servant.

The girl had not spoken since they started; she remained sitting still in her place when the cab halted at a door, and it needed his hand on her arm to rouse her to dismount.  She followed him obediently between more men in uniform, and they found themselves in a corridor, where an officer, obviously waiting there for the purpose, greeted Rufin with marked deference.