ct is normal; but I maintain that he is one of those
imbeciles who have certain faculties very fully developed, while others,
more essential, are missing."

While M. Folgat listened with the most intense interest, M. de Chandore
became impatient, and said,--

"The difference between an idiot and an imbecile"--

"There is a world between them," cried the doctor.

And at once he went on with overwhelming volubility,--

"The imbecile preserves some fragments of intelligence. He can speak,
make known his wants, and express his feelings. He associates ideas,
compares impressions, remembers things, and acquires experience. He is
capable of cunning and dissimulation. He hates and likes and fears.
If he is not always sociable, he is susceptible of being influenced
by others. You can easily obtain perfect control over him. His
inconsistency is remarkable; and still he shows, at times, invincible
obstinacy. Finally, imbeciles are, on account of this semi-lucidity,
often very dangerous. You find among them almost all those monomaniacs
whom society is compelled to shut up in asylums, because they cannot
master their instincts."

"Very well said," repeated M. Folgat, who found here some elements of a
plea,--"very well said."

The doctor bowed.

"Such a creature is Cocoleu. Does it follow that I hold him responsible
for his actions? By no means! But it follows that I look upon him as a
false witness brought forth to ruin an honest man."

It was evident that such views did not please M. de Chandore.

"Formerly," he said, "you did not think so."

"No, I even said the contrary," replied Dr. Seignebos, not without
dignity. "I had not studied Cocoleu sufficiently, and I was taken in by
him: I confess it openly. But this avowal of mine is an evidence of the
cunning and the astute obstinacy of these wretched creatures, and of
their capacity to carry out a design. After a year's experience, I sent
Cocoleu away, declaring, and certainly believing, that he was incurable.
The fact is, he did not want to be cured. The country-people, who
observe carefully and shrewdly, were not taken in; they will tell you,
almost to a man, that Cocoleu is bad, but not an idiot. That is the
truth. He has found out, that, by exaggerating his imbecility, he could
live without work; and he has done it. When he was taken in by Count
Claudieuse, he was clever enough to show just so much intelligence as
was necessary to make him endurable, without being c