“Who is the wretch?”

“Cocoleu!”

M. de Boiscoran seemed to be overwhelmed.  He stammered,—­

“Cocoleu?  That poor epileptic idiot whom the Countess Claudieuse has picked up?”

“The same.”

“And upon the strength of the senseless words of a poor imbecile I am charged with incendiarism, with murder?”

Never had the magistrate made such efforts to assume an air of impassive dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,—­

“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of his faculties.  The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”

“But sir”—­

“And what does Cocoleu depose?  He says he saw you kindle the fire with your own hands, then conceal yourself behind a pile of wood, and fire twice at Count Claudieuse.”

“And all that appears quite natural to you?”

“No!  At first it shocked me as it shocked everybody.  You seem to be far above all suspicion.  But a moment afterwards they pick up the cartridge-case, which can only have belonged to you.  Then, upon my arrival here, I surprise you in bed, and find the water in which you have washed your hands black with coal, and little pieces of charred paper swimming on top of it.”

“Yes,” said M. de Boiscoran in an undertone:  “it is fate.”

“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, raising his voice, “I examine you, and you admit having been out from eight o’clock till after midnight.  I ask what you have been doing, and you refuse to tell me.  I insist, and you tell a falsehood.  In order to overwhelm you, I am forced to quote the evidence of young Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois, who have seen you at the very places where you deny having been.  That circumstance alone condemns you.  Why should you not be willing to tell me what you have been doing during those four hours?  You claim to be innocent.  Help me, then, to establish your innocence.  Speak, tell me what you were doing between eight and midnight.”

M. de Boiscoran had no time to answer.

For some time already, half-suppressed cries, and the sound of a large crowd, had come up from the courtyard.  A gendarme came in quite excited; and, turning to the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, he said,—­

“Gentlemen, there are several hundred peasants, men and women, in the yard, who clamor for M. de Boiscoran.  They threaten to drag him down to the river.  Some of the men are armed with pitchforks; but the women are the maddest.  My comrade and I have done our best to keep them quiet.”

And just then, as if to confirm what he said, the cries came nearer, growing louder and louder; and one could distinctly hear,—­

“Drown Boiscoran!  Let us drown the incendiary!”

The attorney rose, and told the gendarme,—­

“Go down and tell these people that the authorities are this moment examining the accused; that they interrupt us; and that, if they keep on, they will have to do with me.”