“Your resolution is fixed,” said the magistrate once more, “you refuse to say any thing?”

“I am innocent.”

M. Galpin saw clearly that it was useless to insist any longer.

“From this moment,” he said, “you are no longer in close confinement.  You can receive the visits of your family in the prison parlor.  The advocate whom you will choose will be admitted to your cell to consult with you.”

“At last!” exclaimed Jacques with explosive delight; and then he added,—­

“Am I at liberty to write to M. de Chandore?”

“Yes,” replied M. Galpin, “and, if you choose to write at once, my clerk will be happy to carry your letter this evening to its destination.”

Jacques de Boiscoran availed himself on the spot of this permission; and he had done very soon, for the note which he wrote, and handed to M. Mechinet, contained only the few words,—­

“I shall expect M. Magloire to-morrow morning at nine.

“J.”

Ever since the day on which they had come to the conclusion that a false step might have the most fatal consequences, Jacques de Boiscoran’s friends had abstained from doing anything.  Besides, what would have been the use of any efforts?  Dr. Seignebos’s request, though unsupported, had been at least partially granted; and the court had summoned a physician from Paris, a great authority on insanity, to determine Cocoleu’s mental condition.  It was on a Saturday that Dr. Seignebos came triumphantly to announce the good news.  It was the following Tuesday that he had to report his discomfiture.  In a furious passion he said,—­

“There are asses in Paris as well as elsewhere!  Or, rather, in these days of trembling egotism and eager servility, an independent man is as difficult to find in Paris as in the provinces.  I was looking for a savant who would be inaccessible to petty considerations; and they send me a trifling fellow, who does not dare to be disagreeable to the gentlemen of the bar.  Ah, it was a cruel disappointment!”

And all the time worrying his spectacles, he went on,—­

“I had been informed of the arrival of my learned brother; and I went to receive him myself at the railway station.  The train comes in; and at once I make out my man in the crowd:  a fine head, well set in grizzly hair, a noble eye, eloquent lips.  ‘There he is!’ I say to myself.  ‘Hm!’ He looked rather dandyish, to be sure, a lot of decorations in his buttonhole, whiskers trimmed as carefully as the box in my garden, and, instead of honest spectacles, a pair of eye-glasses.  But no man is perfect.  I go up to him, I give him my name, we shake hands, I ask him to breakfast, he accepts; and here we are at table, he doing justice to my Bordeaux, and I explaining to him the case systematically.  When we have done, he wishes to see Cocoleu.  We go to the hospital; and there, after merely glancing at the creature, he says, ’That man is simply the most complete