"No," said Rufin, unconsciously speaking aloud—"no; they must not kill him."
"Ah, M'sieur!" It was a cry from the girl, whose composure had broken utterly at his words. "You are also an artist—you know!"
In a hysteria of supplication she flung herself forward and was on her knees at his feet. She lifted clasped hands and blinded eyes; she was like a child saying its prayers but for the writhen torture of her face, where wild hopes and lunatic terrors played alternately.
"M'sieur, you can save him! You have the grand air, M'sieur; there is God in your face; you make men hear you! For mercy—for blessed charity—ah, M'sieur, M'sieur, I will carry your sins for you; I will go to hell in your place! You are great—one sees it; and he is great, too! M'sieur, I am your chattel, your beast—only save him, save him!"
It tore the barren atmosphere of the office to rags; it made the place august and awful. Rufin bent to her and took her clasped hands in one of his to raise her.
"I will do all that I can," he said earnestly. "All! I dare not do less, my child."
She gulped and shivered; she had poured her soul and her force forth, and she was weak and empty. She strained to find further expression, but could not. Rufin supported her to the chair.
"We must see what is happening in this trial," he said to the little official. "We have lost time as it is."
"I will guide you," replied the other happily. "It!-is a situation, is it not? Ah, the crevasses, the abysses of life! Come, my friend."
From the Salle des Pas Perdus a murmur reached them. They entered it to find the crowd sundered, leaving empty a broad alley.