He would have moved the marble on his mantelpiece sooner than M. Galpin. The latter replied in icy tones,—
“I am not part of the question here. Why will you refer to relations which must be forgotten? It is no longer the friend who speaks to you, not even the man, but simply the magistrate. You were seen”—
“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.”