“Cocoleu? That poor epileptic idiot whom the Countess Claudieuse has
picked up?”
“The same.”
“And upon the strength of the senseless words of a poor imbecile I am
charged with incendiarism, with murder?”
Never had the magistrate made such efforts to assume an air of impassive
dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,--
“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of
his faculties. The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”
“But sir”--
“And what does Cocoleu depose? He says he saw you kindle the fire with
your own hands, then conceal yourself behind a pile of wood, and fire
twice at Count Claudieuse.”
“And all that appears quite natural to you?”
“No! At first it shocked me as it shocked everybody. You seem to be
far above all suspicion. But a moment afterwards they pick up the
cartridge-case, which can only have belonged to you. Then, upon my
arrival here, I surprise you in bed, and find the water in which you
have washed your hands black with coal, and little pieces of charred
paper swimming on top of it.”
“Yes,” said M. de Boiscoran in an undertone: “it is fate.”
“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, raising his voice, “I
examine you, and you admit having been out from eight o’clock till after
midnight. I ask what you have been doing, and you refuse to tell me. I
insist, and you tell a falsehood. In order to overwhelm you, I am forced
to quote the evidence of young Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois,
who have seen you at the very places where you deny having been. That
circumstance alone condemns you. Why should you not be willing to tell
me what you have been doing during those four hours? You claim to be
innocent. Help me, then, to establish your innocence. Speak, tell me
what you were doing between eight and midnight.”