“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, put them under a rick of straw near by, and push the burning mass
towards two enormous piles of wood which were in close contact with a
vat full of spirits.
“This is sheer nonsense!” cried the doctor, thus giving words to what
they all seemed to feel.