“Come with me, then.”

She took him into the garden, and there asked a gardener,—­

“Where is the idiot?”

The man put his spade into the ground; and, with that affected reverence which characterizes all persons employed in a convent, he answered,—­

“The idiot is down there in the middle avenue, mother, in his usual place, you know, which nothing will induce him to leave.”

M. Galpin and the lady superior found him there.  They had taken off the rags which he wore when he was admitted, and put him into the hospital-dress, which was a large gray coat and a cotton cap.  He did not look any more intelligent for that; but he was less repulsive.  He was seated on the ground, playing with the gravel.

“Well, my boy,” asked M. Galpin, “how do you like this?”

He raised his inane face, and fixed his dull eye on the lady superior; but he made no reply.

“Would you like to go back to Valpinson?” asked the lawyer again.  He shuddered, but did not open his lips.

“Look here,” said M. Galpin, “answer me, and I’ll give you a ten-cent piece.”

No:  Cocoleu was at his play again.

“That is the way he is always,” declared the lady superior.  “Since he is here, no one has ever gotten a word out of him.  Promises, threats, nothing has any effect.  One day I thought I would try an experiment; and, instead of letting him have his breakfast, I said to him, ’You shall have nothing to eat till you say, “I am hungry."’ At the end of twenty-four hours I had to let him have his pittance; for he would have starved himself sooner than utter a word.”

“What does Dr. Seignebos think of him?”

“The doctor does not want to hear his name mentioned,” replied the lady superior.

And, raising her eyes to heaven, she added,—­

“And that is a clear proof, that, but for the direct intervention of Providence, the poor creature would never have denounced the crime which he had witnessed.”

Immediately, however, she returned to earthly things, and asked,—­

“But will you not relieve us soon of this poor idiot, who is a heavy charge on our hospital?  Why not send him back to his village, where he found his support before?  We have quite a number of sick and poor, and very little room.”

“We must wait, sister, till M. de Boiscoran’s trial is finished,” replied the magistrate.

The lady superior looked resigned, and said,—­

“That is what the mayor told me, and it is very provoking, I must say:  however, they have allowed me to turn him out of the room which they had given him at first.  I have sent him to the Insane Ward.  That is the name we give to a few little rooms, enclosed by a wall, where we keep the poor insane, who are sent to us provisionally.”

Here she was interrupted by the janitor of the hospital, who came up, bowing.

“What do you want?” she asked.