“Fire,” replied the idiot.
“Yes, my friend, fire, which burns down the house of your benefactor,—fire, which has killed two good men. But that is not all: they have tried to murder the count. Do you see him there in his bed, wounded, and covered with blood? Do you see the countess, how she suffers?”
Did Cocoleu follow him? His distorted features betrayed nothing of what might be going on within him.
“Nonsense!” growled the doctor, “what obstinacy! What folly!”
M. Galpin heard him, and said angrily,—
“Sir, do not force me to remind you that I have not far from here, men whose duty it is to see that my authority is respected here.”
Then, turning again to the poor idiot, he went on,—
“All these misfortunes are the work of a vile incendiary. You hate him, don’t you; you detest him, the rascal!”
“Yes,” said Cocoleu.
“You want him to be punished, don’t you?”