“‘Such is my will, such are my orders, and my will is sufficient.’

“‘Hoc volo, hoc jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas.’”

For once Dr. Seignebos seemed to be convinced by M. Daubigeon’s words.  He said,—­

“Then, M. Galpin has even the right to deprive a sick man of his physician’s assistance.”

“If he assumes the responsibility, yes.  But he does not mean to go so far.  He was, on the contrary, about to ask you, although it is Sunday, to come and be present at a second examination of Cocoleu.  I am surprised that you have not received his note, and that you did not meet him at the hospital.”

“Well, I am going at once.”

And he went back hurriedly, and was glad he had done so; for at the door of the hospital he came face to face against M. Galpin, who was just coming in, accompanied by his faithful clerk, Mechinet.

“You came just in time, doctor,” began the magistrate, with his usual solemnity.

But, short and rapid as the doctor’s walk had been, it had given him time to reflect, and to grow cool.  Instead of breaking out into recriminations, he replied in a tone of mock politeness,—­

“Yes, I know.  It is that poor devil to whom you have given a gendarme for a nurse.  Let us go up:  I am at your service.”

The room in which Cocoleu had been put was large, whitewashed, and empty, except that a bed, a table and two chairs, stood about.  The bed was no doubt a good one; but the idiot had taken off the mattress and the blankets, and lain down in his clothes on the straw bed.  Thus the magistrate and the physician found him as they entered.  He rose at their appearance; but, when he saw the gendarme, he uttered a cry, and tried to hide under the bed.  M. Galpin ordered the gendarme to pull him out again.  Then he walked up to him, and said,—­

“Don’t be afraid, Cocoleu.  We want to do you no harm; only you must answer our questions.  Do you recollect what happened the other night at Valpinson?”

Cocoleu laughed,—­the laugh of an idiot,—­but he made no reply.  And then, for a whole hour, begging, threatening, and promising by turns, the magistrate tried in vain to obtain one word from him.  Not even the name of the Countess Claudieuse had the slightest effect.  At last, utterly out of patience, he said,—­

“Let us go.  The wretch is worse than a brute.”

“Was he any better,” asked the doctor, “when he denounced M. de Boiscoran?”

But the magistrate pretended not to hear; and, when they were about to leave the room, he said to the doctor,—­

“You know that I expect your report, doctor?”

“In forty-eight hours I shall have the honor to hand it to you,” replied the latter.

But as he went off, he said half aloud,—­

“And that report is going to give you some trouble, my good man.”

The report was ready then, and his reason for not giving it in, was that he thought, the longer he could delay it, the more chance he would probably have to defeat the plan of the prosecution.