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See for yourself here are the papers! We shall be fortunate if four executions suffice." Rufin was seated facing him across a great desk littered with documents. "Why not try if three will serve?" he suggested. The minister smiled and shook his head. He looked at Rufin half humorously. "These Parisians," he said, "have the guillotine habit.

The words, in their matter-of-fact directness, no less than the tone, seemed to startle the officer. "Ah, Mademoiselle!" he protested, as though at an indelicacy or an accusation. "How long?" repeated the girl. "Kindly tell mademoiselle what she wishes to know," directed Rufin. The officer hesitated. "It does not rest with me," he said uncomfortably.

They parted with mutual salutations, two gentlemen who had carried an honorable transaction to a worthy close. A white- aproned waiter smiled upon them tolerantly and held open the door that Rufin might enter to his lunch. It was in this manner that the strings were pulled which sent Rufin on foot to Montmartre, with the sun at his back and the streets chirping about him.

"Silence! you old rebel," shouted Rufin, drawing a pistol from his holster. "And you, Morral, never fear. At it again, man." The soldier again applied his knuckles to his horse's back, and the animal gave a tremendous kick.

Yes, it was the true art, the poignant vision, a thing belonging to all time. In the courtyard the fat concierge was awake, in a torpid fashion, and knitting. She lifted her greedy and tyrannical eyes at the tall figure of Rufin, with its suggestion of splendors and dignities. But she was not much more informative than Papa Musard had been.

For he is he is a great man!" 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.

Rufin looked back to be sure that no one was coming up the stairs, and then tiptoed into the room to see what hung on the easel. "After all," he murmured, "an artist has the right." The picture on the easel was all but completed; it was a quarter- length painting of a girl.

A grotesque touch, that vous ne trouvez pas? tres fort!" the official was remarking when Rufin took him by the arm. "That girl," he said. "You see her? against the wall there. I cannot talk with her in this crowd, and I must talk to her at once. Where is there some quiet Place?" "Eh?" The little babbling official had a moment of doubt.

In our day, M. Rufin Piotrowski, also a Polish patriot, has had the marvelous good-fortune to succeed in the all but impossible attempt; and he has given his story to his countrymen in a simple, unpretending narrative, which, even in an abridged form, will, we think, be found one of thrilling interest.

It was weariness, perhaps, that give him his look of satiety, of appetites full fed and dormant, of lusts grossly slaked. A murmur ran through the hall as he passed; it was as though the wretched men and women who knew him uttered an involuntary applause. "There is Peter," said some one near Rufin. "Lucky Peter; Quel homme!"