"These Parisians," he said, "have the guillotine habit. If they take to crying for more, what old man can be sure of dying in his bed? My grandfather was an old man, and his head fell in the Revolution."
"But this," said Rufin, rustling the newspapers before him—"this is clamor. It is panic. It is not serious."
"That is why I am afraid of it," replied the Minister. "I am always afraid of a frightened Frenchman. But, sans blague, my friend, I cannot do what you wish."
Rufin put the piled newspapers from him and leaned forward to plead.
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."