“There is one here who can tell.”
“Who?”
“Cocoleu. He was there from the beginning. It was he who went and
brought the children of the countess out of their room. What has become
of him?--Cocoleu, Cocoleu!”
One must have lived in the country, among these simple-minded peasants,
to understand the excitement and the fury of all these men and women as
they crowded around the ruins of Valpinson. People in town do not mind
brigands, in general: they have their gas, their strong doors, and
the police. They are generally little afraid of fire. They have their
fire-alarms; and at the first spark the neighbor cries, “Fire!” The
engines come racing up; and water comes forth as if by magic. But it
is very different in the country: here every man is constantly under
a sense of his isolation. A simple latch protects his door; and no one
watches over his safety at night. If a murderer should attack him, his
cries could bring no help. If fire should break out, his house would be
burnt down before the neighbors could reach it; and he is happy who can
save his own life and that of his family. Hence all these good people,
whom the mayor’s words had deeply excited, were eager to find out the
only man who knew anything about this calamity, Cocoleu.
He was well known among them, and for many years.
There was not one among them who had not given him a piece of bread, or
a bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not one of them had ever refused
him a night’s rest on the straw in his barn, when it was raining or
freezing, and the poor fellow wanted a shelter.
For Cocoleu was one of those unfortunate beings who labor under a
grievous physical or moral deformity.
Some twenty years ago, a wealthy land-owner in Brechy had sent to the
nearest town for half a dozen painters, whom he kept at his house nearly
a whole summer, painting and decorating his newly-built house. One of
these men had seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom he had bewitched
by his long white blouse, his handsome brown mustache, his good spirits,
gay songs, and flattering speeches. But, when the work was done, the
tempter had flown away with the others, without thinking any more of the
poor girl than of the last cigar which he had smoked.
And yet she was expecting a child. When she could no longer conceal
her condition, she was turned out of the house in which she had been
employed; and her family, unable to support themselves, drove her away
without mercy. Overcome with grief, shame, and remorse, poor Colette
wandered from farm to farm, begging, insulted, laughed at, beaten even
at times. Thus it came about, that in a dark wood, one dismal winter
evening, she gave life to a male child. No one ever understood how
mother and child managed to survive. But both lived; and for many a year
they were seen in and around Sauveterre, covered with rags, and living
upon the dear-bought generosity of the peasants.
Then the mother died, utterly forsaken by human help, as she had lived.
They found her body, one morning, in a ditch by the wayside.
The child survived alone. He was then eight years old, quite strong
and tall for his age. A farmer took pity on him, and took him home.
The little wretch was not fit for anything: he could not even keep
his master’s cows. During his mother’s lifetime, his silence, his wild
looks, and his savage appearance, had been attributed to his wretched
mode of life. But when people began to be interested in him, they found
out that his intellect had never been aroused. He was an idiot, and,
besides, subject to that terrible nervous affection which at times
shakes the whole body and disfigures the face by the violence of
uncontrollable convulsions. He was not a deaf-mute; but he could
only stammer out with intense difficulty a few disjointed syllables.
Sometimes the country people would say to him,--
“Tell us your name, and you shall have a cent.”
Then it took him five minutes’ hard work to utter, amid a thousand
painful contortions, the name of his mother.
“Co-co-co-lette.”
Hence came his name Cocoleu. It had been ascertained that he was utterly
unable to do anything; and people ceased to interest themselves in his
behalf. The consequence was, that he became a vagabond as of old.
It was about this time that Dr. Seignebos, on one of his visits, met him
one day on the public road.
This excellent man had, among other extraordinary notions, the
conviction that idiocy is nothing more than a defective state of
the brains, which may be remedied by the use of certain well-known
substances, such as phosphorus, for instance. He lost no time in seizing
upon this admirable opportunity to test his theory. Cocoleu was sent
for, and installed in his house. He subjected him to a treatment which
he kept secret; and only a druggist at Sauveterre, who was also
well known as entertaining very extraordinary notions, knew what
had happened. At the end of eighteen months, Cocoleu had fallen off
terribly: he talked perhaps, a little more fluently; but his intellect
had not been perceptibly improved.
Dr. Seignebos was discouraged. He made up a parcel of things which he
had given to his patient, put it into his hands, pushed him out of his
door, and told him never to come back again.
The doctor had rendered Cocoleu a sad service. The poor idiot had lost
the habit of privation: he had forgotten how to go from door to door,
asking for alms; and he would have perished, if his good fortune had not
led him to knock at the door of the house at Valpinson.
Count Claudieuse and his wife were touched by his wretchedness, and
determined to take charge of him. They gave him a room and a bed at one
of the farmhouses; but they could never induce him to stay there. He
was by nature a vagabond; and the instinct was too strong for him. In
winter, frost and snow kept him in for a little while; but as soon as
the first leaves came out, he went wandering again through forest and
field, remaining absent often for weeks altogether.
At last, however, something seemed to have been aroused in him, which
looked like the instinct of a domesticated animal. His attachment to
the countess resembled that of a dog, even in the capers and cries with
which he greeted her whenever he saw her. Often, when she went out, he
accompanied her, running and frolicking around her just like a dog. He
was also very fond of little girls, and seemed to resent it when he was
kept from them: for people were afraid his nervous attacks might affect
the children.
With time he had also become capable of performing some simple service.
He could be intrusted with certain messages: he could water the flowers,
summon a servant, or even carry a letter to the post-office at Brechy.
His progress in this respect was so marked, that some of the more
cunning peasants began to suspect that Cocoleu was not so “innocent,”
after all, as he looked, and that he was cleverly playing the fool in
order to enjoy life easily.
“We have him at last,” cried several voices at once. “Here he is; here
he is!”
The crowd made way promptly; and almost immediately a young man
appeared, led and pushed forward by several persons. Cocoleu’s clothes,
all in disorder, showed clearly that he had offered a stout resistance.
He was a youth of about eighteen years, very tall, quite beardless,
excessively thin, and so loosely jointed, that he looked like a
hunchback. A mass of reddish hair came down his low, retreating
forehead. His small eyes, his enormous mouth bristling with sharp teeth,
his broad flat nose, and his immense ears, gave to his face a strange
idiotic expression, and to his whole appearance a most painful brutish
air.
“What must we do with him?” asked the peasants of the mayor.
“We must take him before the magistrate, my friends,” replied M.
Seneschal,--“down there in that cottage, where you have carried the
count.”
“And we’ll make him talk,” threatened his captors. “You hear! Go on,
quick!”