"Ah," she cried, "do you not need me at all—even now?"
"Oh, what is it?" said the condemned man, with a quick irritation.
"Is this a time! There is not a moment to spare. I must speak to
Rufin—I must. Yes, kneel down; that's right!"
She had sunk at his knee and laid her brown head upon it. As though to acknowledge the caress of a dog, he let one hand fall on her bowed shoulders. His eyes traveled across her to Rufin.
"They told me you would come. Say—is it because of my picture?"
"Yes," said Rufin. "I have done all that I could to save you because of that. But——"
"I know," said the other. "They have told me. You like it, then—my poor 'Mona Lisa' of Montmartre?"
Rufin stepped closer. It was not easy to utter all he desired to say under the eyes of those uniformed men, with the sad, attentive priest in the background.
"Monsieur," he said, "your picture is in my studio. Nothing shall ever hang in its place, for nothing will be worthy."
The seated man heard him hungrily. For the moment he seemed to have forgotten where he was and what was to happen to him ere he drew many more breaths.
"I knew," he said, "I knew. I can paint. So can you, Monsieur— sometimes. We two—-we know!"