had afforded him a refuge
in the different huts of the forest, supplying him with food--acts
not alone of benevolence, but of daring courage, as Mahon continually
asserted. If it were but known, 'they 'd give him a _peloton_ and eight
paces.' The theme of Jacques' heroism was so engrossing, that he could
not turn from it; every little incident of his kindness, every stratagem
of his inventive good-nature, he dwelt upon with eager delight, and
seemed half to forget his own sorrows in recounting the services of his
benefactor. I saw that it would be fruitless to ask for any account of
his past calamity, or by what series of mischances he had fallen so low.
I saw--I will own with some chagrin--that, with the mere selfishness of
misfortune, he could not speak of anything save what bore upon his own
daily life, and totally forgot me and all about me.

The most relentless persecution seemed to follow him from place to
place. Wherever he went, fresh spies started on his track, and the
history of his escapes was unending. The very faggot-cutters of the
forest were in league against him, and the high price offered for his
capture had drawn many into the pursuit. It was curious to mark the
degree of self-importance all these recitals imparted, and how the poor
fellow, starving and almost naked as he was, rose into all the imagined
dignity of martyrdom, as he told of his sorrows. If he ever asked a
question about Paris, it was to know what people said of himself and of
his fortunes. He was thoroughly convinced that Bonaparte's thoughts were
far more occupied about him than on that empire now so nearly in his
grasp, and he continued to repeat with a proud delight, 'He has caught
them all but me! I am the only one who has escaped him!' These few words
suggested to me the impression that Mahon had been engaged in some plot
or conspiracy, but of what nature, how composed, or how discovered, it
was impossible to arrive at.

'There!' said he, at last, 'there is the dawn breaking! I must be off. I
must now make for the thickest part of the wood till nightfall There are
hiding-places there known to none save myself. The bloodhounds cannot
track me where I go.'

His impatience became now extreme. Every instant seemed full of peril
to him now--every rustling leaf and every waving branch a warning. I was
unable to satisfy myself how far this might be well-founded terror, or a
vague and causeless fear. At one moment I inclined to this--at