Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau
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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!”
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