three necks to subdue. France at large would only
shrug, for France is the husband of Paris and permits her her
caprices. It rested with Paris, then.

But, as though they insisted upon a martyr, the apaches themselves
intervened with a brisk series of murders and outrages, the last of
which they effected on the very fringe of the show-Paris. It was not
a sergent de ville this time, but a shopkeeper, and the city frothed
at the mouth and shrieked for revenge.

"After that," said the Minister, "there is nothing to do. 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. 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."

"We three?" Rufin waited for an explanation.

"Exactly. You two great artists, Monsieur Rufin and Monsieur Giaconi,
and also the murderer, Peter the Lucky."

The old man smiled charmingly; he had brought the negotiations to a
point with a