t unlimited power. No
one in the world can say so well as an examining magistrate what the
poet calls,--

"'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
B