She spoke with passion, with a living fervor of conviction, but her eyes still appealed.
"You and I both know it quite certainly, Mademoiselle," replied Rufin. "Everybody will know it very soon. It is a truth that cannot be hidden. But where is the picture?!"
"I have it," she answered.
"Take care of it, then," said Rufin. "You have a great trust. And the painter—have you got him, too?"
She stared at him, bewildered. "The painter? The painter of the picture?"
"Of course," said Rufin. "Who else?"
"But——" she looked from him to the benign official, who had the air of presiding at a ceremony. "Then you don't know? You haven't heard?"
Comprehension lit in her face; she uttered a wretched little laugh.
"Ah, v'la de la comedie!" she cried. "No, I haven't got him. They have taken him from me. They have taken him, and in there"—her forefinger shot out and pointed to the wall and beyond it—"in there, in a room full of people who stare and listen, they are making him into a murderer."
"Then—parbleu!" The little official was seized by comprehension as by a fit. "Then there is an artist—the artist of whom you talk—who is one of the apaches! It is unbelievable!"