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

“The difference between an idiot and an imbecile”—

“There is a world between them,” cried the doctor.

And at once he went on with overwhelming volubility,—

“The imbecile preserves some fragments of intelligence. He can speak, make known his wants, and express his feelings. He associates ideas, compares impressions, remembers things, and acquires experience. He is capable of cunning and dissimulation. He hates and likes and fears. If he is not always sociable, he is susceptible of being influenced by others. You can easily obtain perfect control over him. His inconsistency is remarkable; and still he shows, at times, invincible obstinacy. Finally, imbeciles are, on account of this semi-lucidity, often very dangerous. You find among them almost all those monomaniacs whom society is compelled to shut up in asylums, because they cannot master their instincts.”

“Very well said,” repeated M. Folgat, who found here some elements of a plea,—“very well said.”

The doctor bowed.

“Such a creature is Cocoleu. Does it follow that I hold him responsible for his actions? By no means! But it follows that I look upon him as a false witness brought forth to ruin an honest man.”

It was evident that such views did not please M. de Chandore.

“Formerly,” he said, “you did not think so.”

“No, I even said the contrary,” replied Dr. Seignebos, not without dignity. “I had not studied Cocoleu sufficiently, and I was taken in by him: I confess it openly. But this avowal of mine is an evidence of the cunning and the astute obstinacy of these wretched creatures, and of their capacity to carry out a design. After a year’s experience, I sent Cocoleu away, declaring, and certainly believing, that he was incurable. The fact is, he did not want to be cured. The country-people, who observe carefully and shrewdly, were not taken in; they will tell you, almost to a man, that Cocoleu is bad, but not an idiot. That is the truth. He has found out, that, by exaggerating his imbecility, he could live without work; and he has done it. When he was taken in by Count Claudieuse, he was clever enough to show just so much intelligence as was necessary to make him endurable, without being compelled to do any work.”

“In a word,” said M. de Chandore incredulously, “Cocoleu is a great actor.”

“Great enough to have deceived me,” replied the doctor: “yes, sir.”

Then turning to M. Folgat, he went on,—

“All this I had told my learned brother, before taking him to the hospital. There we found Cocoleu more obstinate than ever in his silence, which even M. Galpin had not induced him to break. All our efforts to obtain a word from him were fruitless, although it was very evident to me that he understood very well. I proposed to resort to quite legitimate means, which are employed to discover feigned defects and diseases; but my learned brother refused and was encouraged in his resistance by M. Galpin: I do not know upon what ground. Then I asked that the Countess Claudieuse should be sent for, as she has a talent of making him talk. M. Galpin would not permit it—and there we are.”

It happens almost daily, that two physicians employed as experts differ in their opinions. The courts would have a great deal to do, if they had to force them to agree. They appoint simply a third expert, whose opinion is decisive. This was necessarily to be done in Cocoleu’s case.

“And as necessarily,” continued Dr. Seignebos, “the court, having appointed a first ass, will associate with me a second ass. They will agree with each other, and I shall be accused and convicted of ignorance and presumption.”

He came, therefore, as he now said, to ask M. de Chandore to render him a little service. He wanted the two families, Chandore and Boiscoran, to employ all their influence to obtain that a commission of physicians from outside—if possible, from Paris—should be appointed to examine Cocoleu, and to report on his mental condition.

“I undertake,” he said, “to prove to really enlightened men, that this poor creature is partly pretending to be imbecile, and that his obstinate speechlessness is only adopted in order to avoid answers which would compromise him.”

At first, however, neither M. de Chandore nor M. Folgat gave any answer. They were considering the question.

“Mind,” said the doctor again, shocked at their silence, “mind, I pray, that if my view is adopted, as I have every reason to hope, a new turn will be given to the whole case.”

Why yes! The ground of the accusation might be taken from under the prosecution; and that was what kept M. Folgat thinking.

“And that is exactly,” he commenced at last, “what makes me ask myself whether the discovery of Cocoleu’s rascality would not be rather injurious than beneficial to M. de Boiscoran.”

The doctor was furious. He cried,—

“I should like to know”—

“Nothing can be more simple,” replied the advocate. “Cocoleu’s idiocy is, perhaps the most serious difficulty in the way of the prosecution, and the most powerful argument for the defence. What can M. Galpin say, if M. de Boiscoran charges him with basing a capital charge upon the incoherent words of a creature void of intelligence, and, consequently, irresponsible.”

“Ah! permit me,” said Dr. Seignebos.

But M. de Chandore heard every syllable.

“Permit yourself, doctor,” he said. “This argument of Cocoleu’s imbecility is one which you have pleaded from the beginning, and which appeared to you, you said, so conclusive, that there was no need of looking for any other.”

Before the doctor could find an answer, M. Folgat went on,—

“Let it be, on the contrary, established that Cocoleu really knows what he says, and all is changed. The prosecution is justified, by an opinion of the faculty, in saying to M. de Boiscoran, ‘You need not deny any longer. You have been seen; here is a witness.’”

These arguments must have struck Dr. Seignebos very forcibly; for he remained silent for at least ten long seconds, wiping his gold spectacles with a pensive air. Had he really done harm to Jacques de Boiscoran, while he meant to help him? But he was not the man to be long in doubt. He replied in a dry tone,—

“I will not discuss that, gentlemen. I will ask you, only one question: ‘Yes or no, do you believe in M. de Boiscoran’s innocence?’”

“We believe in it fully,” replied the two men.

“Then, gentlemen, it seems to me we are running no risk in trying to unmask an impostor.”

That was not the young lawyer’s opinion.

“To prove that Cocoleu knows what he says,” he replied, “would be fatal, unless we can prove at the same time that he has told a falsehood, and that his evidence has been prompted by others. Can we prove that? Have we any means to