Within an Inch of His Life, Emile Gaboriau [thriller books to read txt] 📗

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!”

IV.

M. Galpin and the doctor had both considered it a point of honor who should show the most perfect indifference; and thus they had betrayed by no sign their curiosity to know what was going on out doors. Dr. Seignebos was on the point of resuming the operation; and, as coolly as if he had been in his own rooms at home, he was washing the sponge which he had just used, and wiping his instruments. The magistrate, on the other hand, was standing in the centre of the room, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed upon the infinite, apparently. It may be he was thinking of his star which had at last brought him that famous criminal case for which he had ardently longed many a year.

Count Claudieuse, however, was very far from sharing their reserve. He was tossing about on his bed; and as soon as the mayor and his friend reappeared, looking quite upset, he exclaimed,—

“What does that uproar mean?”

And, when he had heard of the calamity, he added,—

“Great God! And I was complaining of my losses. Two men killed! That is a real misfortune. Poor men! to die because they were so brave,—Bolton hardly thirty years old; Guillebault, a father of a family, who leaves five children, and not a cent!”

The countess, coming in at that moment, heard his last words.

“As long as we have a mouthful of bread,” she said in a voice full of deep emotion, “neither Bolton’s mother, nor Guillebault’s children, shall ever know what want is.”

She could not say another word; for at that moment the peasants crowded into the room, pushing the prisoner before them.

“Where is the magistrate?” they asked. “Here is a witness!”

“What, Cocoleu!” exclaimed the count.

“Yes, he knows something: he said so himself. We want him to tell it to the magistrate. We want the incendiary to be caught.”

Dr. Seignebos had frowned fiercely. He execrated Cocoleu, whose sight recalled to him that great failure which the good people of Sauveterre were not likely to forget soon.

“You do not really mean to examine him?” he asked, turning to M. Galpin.

“Why not?” answered the magistrate dryly.

“Because he is an imbecile, sir, an idiot. Because he cannot possibly understand your questions, or the importance of his answers.”

“He may give us a valuable hint, nevertheless.”

“He? A man who has no sense? You don’t really think so. The law cannot attach any importance to the evidence of a fool.”

M. Galpin betrayed his impatience by an increase of stiffness, as he replied,—

“I know my duty, sir.”

“And I,” replied the physician,—“I also know what I have to do. You have summoned me to assist you in this investigation. I obey; and I declare officially, that the mental condition of this unfortunate man makes his evidence utterly worthless. I appeal to the commonwealth attorney.”

He had hoped for a word of encouragement from M. Daubigeon; but nothing came. Then he went on,—

“Take care, sir, or you may get yourself into trouble. What would you do if this poor fellow should make a formal charge against any one? Could you attach any weight to his word?”

The peasants were listening with open mouths. One of them said,—

“Oh! Cocoleu is not so innocent as he looks.”

“He can say very well what he wants to say, the scamp!” added another.

“At all events, I am indebted to him for the life of my children,” said the count gently. “He thought of them when I was unconscious, and when no one else remembered them. Come, Cocoleu, come nearer, my friend, don’t be afraid: there is no one here to hurt you.”

It was very well the count used such kind words; for Cocoleu was thoroughly terrified by the brutal treatment he had received, and was trembling in all his limbs.

“I am—not—a—afraid,” he stammered out.

“Once more I protest,” said the physician.

He had found out that he stood not alone in his opinion. Count Claudieuse came to his assistance, saying,—

“I really think it might be dangerous to question Cocoleu.”

But the magistrate was master of