“In fine, my learned brother is fully persuaded that his mission as a physician employed by a court of justice is to say ‘Amen’ to all the stories of the prosecution. ‘Cocoleu is an idiot,’ says M. Galpin peremptorily. ‘He is an idiot, or ought to be one,’ reechoes my learned brother. ‘He spoke on the occasion of the crime by an inspiration from on high,’ the magistrate goes on to say. ‘Evidently,’ adds the brother, ‘there was an inspiration from on high.’ For this is the conclusion at which my learned brother arrives in his report: ‘Cocoleu is an idiot who had been providentially inspired by a flash of reason.’ He does not say it in these words; but it amounts to the same thing.” He had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them industriously. “But what do you think, doctor?” asked M. Folgat. Dr. Seignebos solemnly put on again his spectacles, and replied coldly,-- “My opinion, which I have fully developed in my report, is, that Cocoleu is not idiotic at all.” M. Chandore started: the proposition seemed to him monstrous. He knew Cocoleu very well; he had seen him wander through the streets of Sauveterre during the eighteen months which the poor creature had spent under the doctor’s treatment. “What! Cocoleu not idiotic?” he repeated. “No!” Dr. Seignebos declared peremptorily; “and you have only to look at him to be convinced. Has he a large flat face, disproportionate mouth, a yellow, tanned complexion, thick lips, defective teeth, and squinting eyes? Does his deformed head sway from side to side, being too heavy to be supported by his neck? Is his body deformed, and his spine crooked? Do you find that his stomach is big and pendent, that his hands drop upon his thighs, that his legs are awkward, and the joints unusually large? These are the symptoms of idiocy, gentleman, and you do not find them in Cocoleu. I, for my part, see in him a scamp, who has an iron constitution, who uses his hands very cleverly, climbs trees like a monkey, and leaps ditches ten feet wide. To be sure, I do not pretend that his intellect 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,--