At the moment M. Seneschal felt himself inspired with a sudden thought.  He knew how cautious peasants are, and how difficult it is to make them tell what they know.  He climbed, therefore, upon a heap of fallen beams, and said in a clear, loud voice,—­

“Yes, my friends, you are right:  death to the incendiary!  Yes, the unfortunate victims of the basest of all crimes must be avenged.  We must find out the incendiary; we must!  You want it to be done, don’t you?  Well, it depends only on you.  There must be some one among you who knows something about this matter.  Let him come forward and tell us what he has seen or heard.  Remember that the smallest trifle may be a clew to the crime.  You would be as bad as the incendiary himself, if you concealed him.  Just think it over, consider.”

Loud voices were heard in the crowd; then suddenly a voice said,—­

“There is one here who can tell.”

“Who?”

“Cocoleu.  He was there from the beginning.  It was he who went and brought the children of the countess out of their room.  What has become of him?—­Cocoleu, Cocoleu!”

One must have lived in the country, among these simple-minded peasants, to understand the excitement and the fury of all these men and women as they crowded around the ruins of Valpinson.  People in town do not mind brigands, in general:  they have their gas, their strong doors, and the police.  They are generally little afraid of fire.  They have their fire-alarms; and at the first spark the neighbor cries, “Fire!” The engines come racing up; and water comes forth as if by magic.  But it is very different in the country:  here every man is constantly under a sense of his isolation.  A simple latch protects his door; and no one watches over his safety at night.  If a murderer should attack him, his cries could bring no help.  If fire should break out, his house would be burnt down before the neighbors could reach it; and he is happy who can save his own life and that of his family.  Hence all these good people, whom the mayor’s words had deeply excited, were eager to find out the only man who knew anything about this calamity, Cocoleu.

He was well known among them, and for many years.

There was not one among them who had not given him a piece of bread, or a bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not one of them had ever refused him a night’s rest on the straw in his barn, when it was raining or freezing, and the poor fellow wanted a shelter.

For Cocoleu was one of those unfortunate beings who labor under a grievous physical or moral deformity.

Some twenty years ago, a wealthy land-owner in Brechy had sent to the nearest town for half a dozen painters, whom he kept at his house nearly a whole summer, painting and decorating his newly-built house.  One of these men had seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom he had bewitched by his long white blouse, his handsome brown mustache, his good spirits, gay songs, and flattering speeches.  But, when the work was done, the tempter had flown away with the others, without thinking any more of the poor girl than of the last cigar which he had smoked.