Rufin, this is the last time I shall appeal to you. Before long I
shall again be in the presence of the great master, of Corot, of him
who----"

Rufin, it seemed, had lost all respect both for Corot and death. He
waved an imperious arm, over which his cloak flapped like a black
wing.

"Who is the artist in the room below?" repeated Rufin urgently. "Do
you know him?"

"No," replied Papa Musard, with emphasis. "Know him--an Italian, a
ruffian, an apache, a man with hair on his arms like a baboon! I do
not know him. There!"

He was offended; a dying man has his privileges, at least. The face,
gnarled and tempestuously bearded, which had been perpetuated by a
hundred laborious painters, glared from the pillow at Rufin with
indignation and protest.

Rufin suppressed an impulse to speak forcibly, for one has no more
right to strip a man of his pose than of his shirt. He smiled at the
angry invalid conciliatingly.

"See how I forget myself!" he said apologetically. "We artists are
all alike. Show us a picture and our manners go by the board. With
you, Musard, need I say more?"

"You have said a lot," grumbled the ancient of days. "Coming in
roaring like a bull! What picture has upset you?"

"A picture you have not seen," said Rufin, "or you would be grasping
my hand and weeping for joy--you who know pictures better than us
all!" He surveyed the invalid, who was softening. Musard knew no more
of pictures than a frame-maker; but that was a fact one did not
mention in his presence.

"Since Corot," sighed Musard, "I have seen few pictures which were--
en effet--pictures."

"You have great memories," agreed Rufin hastily. "But I have just
seen a picture--ah, but a picture, my friend!"

The old cunning face on the pillow resisted the charm of his manner,
the gentleness of his appeal.

"Not his?" demanded Papa Musard. "Not in the room underneath? Not one
of the daubs of that assassin, that cut-throat, that Italian?"

Rufin nodded, as though confirming a pleasant surprise. "Is it not
strange," he said, "how genius will roost on any perch? It is true,
then, that he is a person who offends your taste? That is bad. Tell
me about him, Musard."

He reached himself a chair and sat down near the foot of the bed.

"You are always making a fuss of some worthless creature," grumbled
Musard. "I do not even know the man's name. They speak of him as
Peter the Lucky--it is a nickname he has on the streets, an apache
name. He