“A man brought by a gendarme,” he replied. “Immediately to be admitted.”
The lady superior read the note, signed by Dr. Seignebos.
“Epileptic,” she said, “and somewhat idiotic: as if we wanted any more! And a stranger into the bargain! Really Dr. Seignebos is too yielding. Why does he not send all these people to their own parish to be taken care of?”
And, with a very elastic step for her age, she went to the parlor, followed by M. Galpin and the janitor. They had put the new patient in there, and, sunk upon a bench, he looked the picture of utter idiocy. After having looked at him for a minute, she said,—
“Put him in the Insane Ward: he can keep Cocoleu company. And let the sister know at the drug-room. But no, I will go myself. You will excuse me, sir.”
And then she left the room. M. Galpin was much comforted.
“There is no danger here,” he said to himself. “And if M. Folgat counts upon any incident during the trial, Cocoleu, at all events, will not furnish it to him.”
XXVII.
At the same hour when the magistrate left the hospital, Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat parted, after a frugal breakfast,—the one to visit his patients, the other to go to the prison. The young advocate was very much troubled. He hung his head as he went down the street; and the diplomatic citizens who compared his dejected appearance with the victorious air of M. Galpin came to the conclusion that Jacques de Boiscoran was irrevocably lost.
At that moment M. Folgat was almost of their opinion. He had to pass through one of those attacks of discouragement, to which the most energetic men succumb at times, when they are bent upon pursuing an uncertain end which they ardently desire.