Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖

the situation, and conscious of all the powers conferred upon him by the laws of France in such cases.

“I must beg, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone which did not allow of any reply,—“I must beg to be permitted to act in my own way.”

And sitting down, he asked Cocoleu,—

“Come, my boy, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Do you know what has happened at Valpinson?”

“Fire,” replied the idiot.

“Yes, my friend, fire, which burns down the house of your benefactor,—fire, which has killed two good men. But that is not all: they have tried to murder the count. Do you see him there in his bed, wounded, and covered with blood? Do you see the countess, how she suffers?”

Did Cocoleu follow him? His distorted features betrayed nothing of what might be going on within him.

“Nonsense!” growled the doctor, “what obstinacy! What folly!”

M. Galpin heard him, and said angrily,—

“Sir, do not force me to remind you that I have not far from here, men whose duty it is to see that my authority is respected here.”

Then, turning again to the poor idiot, he went on,—

“All these misfortunes are the work of a vile incendiary. You hate him, don’t you; you detest him, the rascal!”

“Yes,” said Cocoleu.

“You want him to be punished, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, then you must help me to find him out, so that the gendarmes may catch him, and put him in jail. You know who it is; you have told these people and”—

He paused, and after a moment, as Cocoleu kept silent, he asked,—

“But, now I think of it, whom has this poor fellow talked to?”

Not one of the peasants could tell. They inquired; but no answer came. Perhaps Cocoleu had never said what he was reported to have said.

“The fact is,” said one of the tenants at Valpinson, “that the poor devil, so to say, never sleeps, and that he is roaming about all night around the house and the farm buildings.”

This was a new light for M. Galpin; suddenly changing the form of his interrogatory, he asked Cocoleu,—

“Where did you spend the night?”

“In—in—the—court—yard.”

“Were you asleep when the fire broke out?”

“No.”

“Did you see it commence?”

“Yes.”

“How did it commence?”

The idiot looked fixedly at the Countess Claudieuse with the timid and abject expression of a dog who tries to read something in his master’s eyes.

“Tell us, my friend,” said the Countess gently,—“tell us.”

A flash of intelligence shone in Cocoleu’s eyes.

“They—they set it on fire,” he stammered.

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman.”

There was not a person present at this extraordinary scene who did not anxiously hold his breath as the word was uttered. The doctor alone kept cool, and exclaimed,—

“Such an examination is sheer folly!”

But the magistrate did not seem to hear his words; and, turning to Cocoleu, he asked him, in a deeply agitated tone of voice—

“Did you see the gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Very—very—well.”

“What is his name?”

“Oh, yes!”

“What is his name? Tell us.”

Cocoleu’s features betrayed the fearful anguish of his mind. He hesitated, and at last he answered, making a violent effort,—“Bois—Bois—Boiscoran!”

The name was received with murmurs of indignation and incredulous laughter. There was not a shadow of doubt or of suspicion. The peasants said,—

“M. de Boiscoran an incendiary! Who does he think will believe that story?”

“It is absurd!” said Count Claudieuse.

“Nonsense!” repeated the mayor and his friend.

Dr. Siegnebos had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them with an air of intense satisfaction.

“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “But the gentleman did not condescend to attach any importance to my suggestions.”

The magistrate was by far the most excited man in the crowd. He had turned excessively pale, and made, visibly, the greatest efforts to preserve his equanimity. The commonwealth attorney leaned over towards him, and whispered,—

“If I were in your place, I would stop here, and consider the answer as not given.”

But M. Galpin was one of those men who are blinded by self-conceit, and who would rather be cut to pieces than admit that they have been mistaken. He answered,—

“I shall go on.”

Then turning once more to Cocoleu, in the midst of so deep a silence that the buzzing of a fly would have been distinctly heard, he asked,—

“Do you know, my boy, what you say? Do you know that you are accusing a man of a horrible crime?”

Whether Cocoleu understood, or not, he was evidently deeply agitated. Big drops of perspiration rolled slowly down his temples; and nervous shocks agitated his limbs, and convulsed his features.

“I, I—am—telling the—truth!” he said at last.

“M. de. Boiscoran has set Valpinson on fire?”

“Yes.”

“How did he do it?”

Cocoleu’s restless eyes wandered incessantly from the count, who looked indignant, to the countess, who seemed to listen with painful surprise. The magistrate repeated,—

“Speak!”

After another moment’s hesitation, the idiot began to explain what he had seen; and it took him many minutes to state, amid countless contortions, and painful efforts to speak, that he had seen M. de Boiscoran pull out some papers from his pocket, light them with a match,