While I was dressing, a note was handed to me from the curÉ, apologising for his departure without seeing me, and begging, as a great favour, that I would not leave the chÂteau till his return. He said that the count’s spirits had benefited greatly by our agreeable converse, and that he requested me to be his guest for some time to come. The postscript added a suggestion that I should write down some of the particulars of my visit to Ettenheim, but particularly of that conversation alluding to the meditated assassination of Bonaparte.

There were many points in the arrangement which I did not like. To begin, I had no fancy whatever for the condition of a dependant, and such my poverty would at once stamp me. Secondly, I was averse to this frequent intercourse with men of the Royalist party, whose restless character and unceasing schemes were opposed to all the principles of those I had served under; and finally, I was growing impatient under the listless vacuity of a life that gave no occupation, nor opened any view for the future. I sat down to breakfast in a mood very little in unison with the material enjoyments around me. The meal was all that could tempt appetite; and the view from the open window displayed a beautiful flower-garden, imperceptibly fading away into a maze of ornamental planting, which was backed again by a deep forest, the well-known wood of Belleville. Still I ate on sullenly, scarce noticing any of the objects around me. I will see the count, and take leave of him, thought I suddenly; I cannot be his guest without sacrificing feeling in a dozen ways.

‘At what hour does monsieur rise?’ asked I of the obsequious valet who waited behind my chair.

‘Usually at three or four in the afternoon, sir; but to-day he has desired me to make his excuses to you. There will be a consultation of doctors here; and the likelihood is, that he may not leave his chamber.’

‘Will you convey my respectful compliments, then, to him, and my regrets that I had not seen him before leaving the chÂteau?’

‘The count charged me, sir, to entreat your remaining here till he had seen you. He said you had done him infinite service already; and indeed it is long since he has passed a night in such tranquillity.’

There are few slight circumstances which impress a stranger more favourably than any semblance of devotion on the part of a servant to his master. The friendship of those above one in life is easier to acquire than the attachment of those beneath. Love is a plant whose tendrils strive ever upwards. I could not help feeling struck at the man’s manner as he spoke these few words; and insensibly my mind reverted to the master who had inspired such sentiments.

‘My master gave orders, sir,’ continued he, ‘that we should do everything possible to contribute to your wishes; that the carriage, or, if you prefer them, saddle-horses, should be ready at any hour you ordered. The wood has a variety of beautiful excursions; there is a lake, too, about two leagues away; and the ruins of Monterraye are also worth seeing.’

‘If I had not engagements in Paris,’ muttered I, while I affected to mumble over the conclusion of the sentence to myself.

‘Monsieur has seldom done a greater kindness than this will be,’ added he respectfully; ‘but if monsieur’s business could be deferred for a day or two, without inconvenience——-’

‘Perhaps that might be managed,’ said I, starting up, and walking to the window, when, for the first time, the glorious prospect revealed itself before me. How delicious, after all, would be a few hours of such a retreat!—a morning loitered away in that beautiful garden, and then a long ramble through the dark wood till sunset. Oh, if Laura were but here! if she could be my companion along those leafy alleys! If not with, I can at least think of her, thought I—seek out spots she would love to linger in, and points of view she would enjoy with all a painter’s zest. And this poor count, with all his riches, could not derive in a whole lifetime the enjoyment that a few brief hours would yield to us! So is it almost ever in this world: to one man the appliances, to another the faculties for enjoyment.

‘I am so glad monsieur has consented,’ said the valet joyously.

‘Did I say so? I don’t know that I said anything.’

‘The count will be so gratified,’ added he, and hurried away to convey the tidings.

Well, be it so. Heaven knows my business in Paris will scarcely suffer by my absence, my chief occupation there being to cheat away the hours till meal-time. It is an occupation I can easily resume a few days hence. I took a book, and strolled out into the garden; but I could not read. There is a gush of pleasure felt at times from the most familiar objects, which the most complicated machinery of enjoyment often fails to equal; and now the odour of moss-roses and geraniums, the rich perfume of orange-flowers, the plash of fountains and the hum of the summer insects, steeped my mind in delight; and I lay there in a dream of bliss that was like enchantment. I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for my thoughts took every form of wildness and incoherency. Ireland; the campaign; the Bay of Genoa; the rugged height of Kuff-stein, all passed before my mind, peopled with images foreign to all their incidents. It was late in the afternoon that I aroused myself, and remembered where I was. The shadows of the dark forest were stretching over the plain, and I determined on a ride beneath their mellow shade. As if in anticipation of my wishes, the horses were already saddled, and a groom stood awaiting my orders. Oh, what a glorious thing it is to be rich! thought I, as I mounted; from what an eminence does the wealthy man view life! No petty cares nor calculations mar the conceptions of his fancy. His will, like his imagination, wanders free and unfettered. And so thinking, I dashed spurs into my horse, and plunged into the dense wood. Perhaps I was better mounted than the groom, or perhaps the man was scarcely accustomed to such impetuosity. Whatever the reason, I was soon out of sight of him. The trackless grass of the alley, and its noiseless turf, made pursuit difficult in a spot where the paths crossed and recrossed in a hundred different directions; and so I rode on for miles and miles without seeing more of my follower.

Forest riding is particularly seductive; you are insensibly led on to see where this alley will open, or how that path will terminate. Some of the spirit of discovery seems to seal its attractions to the wild and devious track, untrodden as it looks; and you feel all the charm of adventure as you advance. The silence, too, is most striking; the noiseless footfall of the horse, and the unbroken stillness, add indescribable charm to the scene, and the least imaginative cannot fail to weave fancies and fictions as he goes.

Near as it was to a great city, not a single rider crossed my path; not even a peasant did I meet. A stray bundle of faggots, bound and ready to be carried away, showed that the axe of the woodman had been heard within the solitude; but not another trace told that human footstep had ever pressed the sward.

Although still a couple of hours from sunset, the shade of the wood was dense enough to make the path appear uncertain, and I was obliged to ride more cautiously than before. I had thought that by steadily pursuing one straight track, I should at last gain the open country, and easily find some road that would reconduct me to the chÂteau; but now I saw no signs of this. ‘The alley’ was, to all appearance, exactly as I found it—miles before. A long aisle of beech-trees stretched away in front and behind me; a short, grassy turf was beneath my feet, and not an object to tell me how far I had come, or whither I was tending. If now and then another road crossed the path, it was in all respects like this one. This was puzzling; and to add to my difficulty, I suddenly remembered that I had never thought of learning the name of the chÂteau, and well knew that to ask for it as the residence of the Count de Maurepas would be a perfect absurdity. There was something so ludicrous in the situation, that I could not refrain from laughing at first; but a moment’s reconsideration made me regard the incident more gravely. In what a position should I stand, if unable to discover the chÂteau! The curÉ might have left Paris before I could reach it; all clue to the count might thus be lost; and although these were but improbable circumstances, they came now very forcibly before me, and gave me serious uneasiness.

‘I have been so often in false positions in life, so frequently implicated where no real blame could attach to me, that I shall not be in the least surprised if I be arrested as a horse-stealer!’ The night now began to fall rapidly, so that I was obliged to proceed at a slow pace; and at length, as the wood seemed to thicken, I was forced to get off, and walk beside my horse. I have often found myself in situations of real peril, with far less anxiety than I now felt. My position seemed at the time inexplicable and absurd. I suppose, thought I, that no man was ever lost in the wood of Belleville; he must find his way out of it sooner or later; and then there can be no great difficulty in returning to Paris. This was about the extent of the comfort I could afford myself; for, once back in the capital, I could not speculate on a single step further.

I was at last so weary with the slow and cautious progression I was condemned to, that I half determined to picket my horse to a tree, and lie down to sleep till daylight. While I sought out a convenient spot for my bivouac, a bright twinkling light, like a small star, caught my eye. Twice it appeared, and vanished again, so that I was well assured of its being real, and no phantom of my now over-excited brain. It appeared to proceed from the very densest part of the wood, and whither, so far as I could see, no path conducted. As I listened to catch any sounds, I again caught sight of the faint star, which now seemed at a short distance from the road where I stood. Fastening my horse to a branch, I advanced directly through the brushwood for about a hundred yards, when I came to a small open space, in which stood one of those modest cottages, of rough timber, wherein, at certain seasons, the gamekeepers take refuge. A low, square, log-hut, with a single door and an unglazed window, comprised the whole edifice, being one of the humblest, even of its humble kind, I had ever seen. Stealing cautiously to the window, I peeped in. On a stone, in the middle of the earthern floor, a small iron lamp stood, which threw a faint and fickle light around. There was no furniture of any kind—nothing that bespoke the place as inhabited; and it was only as I continued to gaze that I detected the figure of a man, who seemed to be sleeping on a heap of dried leaves in one corner of the hovel. I own that, with all my anxiety to find a guide, I began to feel some scruples about obtruding on the sleeper’s privacy. He was evidently no garde-chasse, who are a well-to-do sort of folk, being usually retired sous-officiers of the army. He might be a poacher, a robber, or perhaps a dash of both together—a trade I had often heard of as being resorted to by the most reckless and abandoned of the population of Paris, when their crimes and their haunts became too well known in the capital.

I peered eagerly through the chamber to see if he were armed; but not a weapon of any kind was to be seen. I next sought to discover if he were quite alone; and although one side of the hovel was hidden from my view, I was well assured that he had no comrade. Come, said I to myself, man to man, if it should come to a struggle, is fair enough; and the chances are I shall be able to defend myself.

His sleep was sound and heavy, like that after fatigue; so that I thought it would be easy for me to enter the hovel, and secure his arms, if he had such, before he should awake. I may seem to my reader, all this time, to have been inspired with an undue amount of caution and prudence, considering how evenly we were matched; but I would remind him that it was a period when the most dreadful crimes were of daily occurrence. Not a night went over without some terrible assassination; and a number of escaped galley-slaves were known to be at large in the suburbs and outskirts of the capital. These men, under the slightest provocation, never hesitated at murder; for their lives were already forfeited, and they scrupled at nothing which offered a chance of escape. To add to the terror their atrocities excited, there was a rumour current at the time that the Government itself made use of these wretches for its own secret acts of vengeance; and many implicitly believed that the dark assassinations of the Temple had no other agency. I do not mean to say that these fears were well founded, or that I myself partook of them; but such were the reports commonly circulated, and the impunity of crime certainly favoured the impression. I know not if this will serve as an apology for the circumspection of my proceeding, as, cautiously pushing the door, inch by inch, I at length threw it wide open. Not the slightest sound escaped as I did so; and yet certainly before my hand quitted the latch, the sleeper had sprung to his knees, and with his dark eyes glaring wildly at me, crouched like a beast about to rush upon an enemy.

His attitude and his whole appearance at that moment are yet before me. Long black hair fell in heavy masses at either side of his head; his face was pale, haggard, and hunger-stricken; a deep, drooping moustache descended from below his chin, and almost touched his collar-bones, which were starting from beneath the skin; a ragged cloak, that covered him as he lay, had fallen off, and showed that a worn shirt and a pair of coarse linen trousers were all his clothing. Such a picture of privation and misery I never looked upon before nor since.

‘Qui va lÀ?’ cried he sternly, and with the voice of one not unused to command; and although the summons showed his soldier-training, his condition of wretchedness suggested deep misgivings.

‘Qui va lÀ?’ shouted he again, louder and more determinedly.

‘A friend—perhaps a comrade,’ said I boldly.

‘Advance, comrade, and give the countersign,’ replied he rapidly, and like one repeating a phrase of routine; and then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he added, with a low sigh, ‘There is none!’ His arms dropped heavily as he spoke, and he fell back against the wall, with his head drooping on his chest.

There was something so unutterably forlorn in his look, as he sat thus, that all apprehension of personal danger from him left me at the moment, and advancing frankly, I told him how I had lost my way in the wood, and by a mere accident chanced to descry his light as I wandered along in the gloom.

I do not know if he understood me at first, for he gazed half vacantly at my face while I was speaking, and often stealthily peered around to see if others were coming, so that I had to repeat more than once that I was perfectly alone. That the poor fellow was insane seemed but too probable; the restless activity of his wild eye, the suspicious watchfulness of his glances, all looked like madness, and I thought that he had probably made his escape from some military hospital, and concealed himself within the recesses of the forest. But even these signs of overwrought excitement began to subside soon; and as though the momentary effort at vigilance had been too much for his strength, he now drew his cloak about him, and lay down once more.

I handed him my brandy flask, which still contained a little, and he raised it to his lips with a slight nod of recognition. Invigorated by the stimulant, he supped again and again, but always cautiously, and with prudent reserve.

‘You have been a soldier?’ said I, taking my seat at his side.

‘I am a soldier,’ said he, with a strong emphasis on the verb.

‘I too have served,’ said I; ‘although, probably, neither as long nor as creditably as you have.’

He looked at me fixedly for a second or two, and then dropped his eyes without a reply.

‘You were probably with the army of the Meuse?’ said I, hazarding the guess, from remembering how many of that army had been invalided by the terrible attacks of ague contracted in North Holland.

‘I served on the Rhine,’ said he briefly; ‘but I made the campaign of Jemappes, too. I served the king also—King Louis,’ cried he sternly. ‘Is that avowal candid enough, or do you want more?’

Another Royalist, thought I, with a sigh. Whichever way I turn they meet me—the very ground seems to give them up.

‘And could you find no better trade than that of a mouchard? ‘asked he sneeringly.

‘I am not a mouchard—I never was one. I am a soldier like yourself; and, mayhap, if all were to be told, scarcely a more fortunate one.’

‘Dismissed the service—and for what?’ asked he bluntly.

‘If not broke, at least not employed,’ said I bitterly.

‘A Royalist?’

‘Not the least of one, but suspected.’

‘Just so. Your letters—your private papers ransacked, and brought in evidence against you. Your conversations with your intimates noted down and attested—every word you dropped in a moment of disappointment or anger; every chance phrase you uttered when provoked—all quoted; wasn’t that it?’

As he spoke this, with a rapid and almost impetuous utterance, I, for the first time, noticed that both the expressions and the accent implied breeding and education. Not all his vehemence could hide the evidences of former cultivation.

‘How comes it,’ asked I eagerly, ‘that such a man as you are is to be found thus? You certainly did not always serve in the ranks?’

‘I had my grade,’ was his short, dry reply.

‘You were a quartermaster—perhaps a sous-lieutenant?’ said I, hoping by the flattery of the surmise to lead him to talk further.

‘I was the colonel of a dragoon regiment,’ said he sternly— ‘and that neither the least brave nor the least distinguished in the French army.’

Ah! thought I, my good fellow, you have shot your bolt too high this time; and in a careless, easy way, I asked, ‘What might have been the number of your corps?’

‘How can it concern you?’ said he, with a savage vehemence. ‘You say that you are not a spy. To what end these questions? As it is, you have made this hovel, which has been my shelter for some weeks back, no longer of any service to me. I will not be tracked. I will not suffer espionage, by Heaven!’ cried he, as he dashed his clenched fist against the ground beside him. His eyes, as he spoke, glared with all the wildness of insanity, and great drops of sweat hung upon his damp forehead.

‘Is it too much,’ continued he, with all the vehemence of passion, ‘is it too much that I was master here? Are these walls too luxurious? Is there the sign of foreign gold in this tasteful furniture and the splendour of these hangings? Or is this’—and he stretched out his lean and naked arms as he spoke—‘is this the garb—is this the garb of a man who can draw at will on the coffers of royalty? Ay!’ cried he, with a wild laugh, ‘if this is the price of my treachery, the treason might well be pardoned.’

I did all I could to assuage the violence of his manner. I talked to him calmly and soberly of myself and of him, repeating over and over the assurance that I had neither the will nor the way to injure him. ‘You may be poor,’ said I, ‘and yet scarcely poorer than I am—friendless, and have as many to care for you as I have. Believe me, comrade, save in the matter of a few years the less on one side, and some services the more on the other, there is little to chose between us.’

These few words, wrung from me in sorrowful sincerity, seemed to do more than all I had said previously, and he moved the lamp a little to one side that he might have a better view of me as I sat; and thus we remained for several minutes staring steadfastly at each other, without a word spoken on either side. It was in vain that I sought in that face, livid and shrunk by famine—in that straggling matted hair, and that figure enveloped in rags, for any traces of former condition. Whatever might once have been his place in society, now he seemed the very lowest of that miserable tribe whose lives are at once the miracle and shame of our century.

‘Except that my senses are always playing me false,’ said he, as he passed his hand across his eyes, ‘I could say that I have seen your face before. What was your corps?’

‘The Ninth Hussars, “the Tapageurs,” as they called them.’

‘When did you join—and where?’ said he, with an eagerness that surprised me.

‘At Nancy,’ said I calmly.

‘You were there with the advanced guard of Moreau’s corps,’ said he hastily; ‘you followed the regiment to the Moselle.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked I, in amazement.

‘Now for your name; tell me your name,’ cried he, grasping my hand in both of his—‘and I charge you by all you care for here or hereafter, no deception with me. It is not a head that has been tried like mine can bear a cheat.’

‘I have no object in deceiving you; nor am I ashamed to say who I am,’ replied I, ‘My name is Tiernay—Maurice Tiernay.’

The word was but out when the poor fellow threw himself forward, and grasping my hands, fell upon and kissed them.

‘So, then, cried he passionately, ‘I am not friendless—I am not utterly deserted in life—you are yet left to me, my dear boy!’

This burst of feeling convinced me that he was deranged; and I was speculating in my mind how best to make my escape from him, when he pushed back the long and tangled hair from his face, and staring wildly at me, said, ‘You know me now—don’t you? Oh, look again, Maurice, and do not let me think that I am forgotten by all the world.

‘Good heavens!’ cried I, ‘it is Colonel Mahon!’

‘Ay, “Le Beau Mahon,”’ said he, with a burst of wild laughter; ‘Le Beau Mahon, as they used to call me long ago. Is this a reverse of fortune, I ask you?’ and he held out the ragged remnants of his miserable clothes. ‘I have not worn shoes for nigh a month. I have tasted food but once in the last thirty hours! I, that have led French soldiers to the charge full fifty times, up to the very batteries of the enemy, am reduced to hide and skulk from place to place like a felon, trembling at the clank of a gendarme’s boot, as never the thunder of an enemy’s squadron made me. Think of the persecution that has brought me to this, and made me a beggar and a coward together!’

A gush of tears burst from him at these words, and he sobbed for several minutes like a child.

Whatever might have been the original source of his misfortunes, I had very little doubt that now his mind had been shaken by their influence, and that calamity had deranged him. The flighty uncertainty of his manner, the incoherent rapidity with which he passed from one topic to another, increased with his excitement, and he passed alternately from the wildest expressions of delight at our meeting, to the most heart-rending descriptions of his own sufferings. By great patience and some ingenuity, I learned that he had taken refuge in the wood of Belleville, where the kindness of an old soldier of his own brigade—now a garde-chasse—had saved him from starvation. Jacques Gaillon was continually alluded to in his narrative. It was Jacques sheltered him when he came first to Belleville. Jacques 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 another, to the opposite impression. Assuredly nothing could be more complete than the precautions he took against discovery. His lamp was concealed in the hollow of a tree; the leaves that formed his bed he scattered and strewed carelessly on every side; he erased even the foot-tracks on the clay, and then gathering up his tattered cloak, prepared to set out.

‘When are we to meet again, and where?’ said I, grasping his hand.

He stopped suddenly, and passed his hand over his brow, as if reflecting. ‘You must see Caillon; Jacques will tell you all,’ said he solemnly. ‘Good-bye. Do not follow me. I will not be tracked’; and with a proud gesture of his hand he motioned me back.

Poor fellow! I saw that any attempt to reason with him would be in vain at such a moment; and determining to seek out the garde-chasse, I turned away slowly and sorrowfully.

‘What have been my vicissitudes of fortune compared to his?’ thought I. ‘The proud colonel of a cavalry regiment, a beggar and an outcast!’ The great puzzle to me was, whether insanity had been the cause or the consequence of his misfortunes. Caillon will, perhaps, be able to tell me his story, said I to myself; and thus ruminating, I returned to where I had picketed my horse three hours before. My old dragoon experiences had taught me how to ‘hobble’ a horse, as it is called, by passing the bridle beneath the counter before tying it, and so I found him just as I left him.

The sun was now up, and I could see that a wide track led off through the forest straight before me. I accordingly mounted, and struck into a sharp canter. About an hour’s riding brought me to a small clearing, in the midst of which stood a neat and picturesque cottage, over the door of which was painted the words ‘Station de Chasse—No. 4.’ In a little garden in front, a man was working in his shirt sleeves, but his military trousers at once proclaimed him the garde. He stopped as I came up, and eyed me sharply.

‘Is this the road to Belleville?’ said I.

‘You can go this way, but it takes you two miles of a round,’ replied he, coming closer, and scanning me keenly.

‘You can tell me, perhaps, where Jacques Caillon, garde-chaase, is to be found?’

‘I am Jacques Caillon, sir,’ was the answer, as he saluted in soldier fashion, while a look of anxiety stole over his face.

‘I have something to speak to you about,’ said I, dismounting, and giving him the bridle of my horse. ‘Throw him some corn, if you have got it, and then let us talk together’; and with this I walked into the garden, and seated myself on a bench.

If Jacques be an old soldier, thought I, the only way is to come the officer over him; discipline and obedience are never forgotten, and whatever chances I may have of his confidence will depend on how much I seem his superior. It appeared as if this conjecture was well founded, for as Jacques came back, his manner betrayed every sign of respect and deference. There was an expression of almost fear in his face as, with his hand to his cap, he asked ‘What were my orders?’

The very deference of his air was disconcerting, and so, assuming a look of easy cordiality, I said—

‘First, I will ask you to give me something to eat; and secondly, to give me your company for half an hour.’

Jacques promised both, and learning that I preferred my breakfast in the open air, proceeded to arrange the table under a blossoming chestnut-tree.

‘Are you quite alone here?’ asked I, as he passed back and forward.

‘Quite alone, sir; and except a stray faggot-cutter or a chance traveller who may have lost his way, I never see a human face from year’s end to year’s end. It’s a lonely thing for an old soldier, too,’ said he, with a sigh.

‘I know more than one who would envy you, Jacques,’ said I; and the words made him almost start as I spoke them. The coffee was now ready, and I proceeded to make my breakfast with all the appetite of a long fast.

There was indeed but little to inspire awe, or even deference, in my personal appearance—a threadbare undress frock and a worn-out old foraging-cap were all the marks of my soldierlike estate; and yet, from Jacques’s manner, one might have guessed me to be a general at the least. He attended me with the stiff propriety of the parade, and when, at last, induced to take a seat, he did so full two yards off from the table, and arose almost every time he was spoken to. Now it was quite clear that the honest soldier did not know me either as the hero of Kehl, of Ireland, or of Genoa. Great achievements as they were, they were wonderfully little noised about the world, and a man might frequent mixed companies every day of the week, and never hear of one of them. So far, then, was certain—-it could not be my fame had imposed on him; and, as I have already hinted, it could scarcely be my general appearance. Who knows, thought I, but I owe all this obsequious deference to my horse? If Jacques be an old cavalry-man, he will have remarked that the beast is of great value, and doubtless argue to the worth of the rider from the merits of his ‘mount.’ If this explanation was not the most flattering, it was, at all events, the best I could hit on; and with a natural reference to what was passing in my own mind, I asked him if he had looked to my horse.

‘Oh yes, sir,’ said he, reddening suddenly, ‘I have taken off the saddle, and thrown him his corn.’

What the deuce does his confusion mean? thought I; the fellow looks as if he had half a mind to run away, merely because I asked him a simple question.

‘I ‘ve had a sharp ride,’ said I, rather by way of saying something, ‘and I shouldn’t wonder if he was a little fatigued.’

‘Scarcely so, sir,’ said he, with a faint smile; ‘he’s old, now, but it’s not a little will tire him.’

‘You know him, then?’ said I quickly.

‘Ay, sir, and have known him for eighteen years. He was in the second squadron of our regiment; the major rode him two entire campaigns!’

The reader may guess that his history was interesting to me, from perceiving the impression the reminiscence made on the relator, and I inquired what became of him after that.

‘He was wounded by a shot at Neuwied, and sold into the train, where they couldn’t manage him; and after three years, when horses grew scarce, he came back into the cavalry. A serjeant-major of lancers was killed on him at “Zwei BrÜcken.” That was the fourth rider he brought mishap to, not to say a farrier whom he dashed to pieces in his stable.’

Ah, Jack, thought I, I have it; it is a piece of old-soldier superstition about this mischievous horse has inspired all the man’s respect and reverence; and, if a little disappointed in the mystery, I was so far pleased at having discovered the clue.

‘But I have found him quiet enough,’ said I; ‘I never backed him till yesterday, and he has carried me well and peaceably.’

‘Ah, that he will now, I warrant him; since the day a shell burst under him at Waitzen he never showed any vice. The wound nearly left the ribs bare, and he was for months and months invalided; after that he was sold out of the cavalry, I don’t know where or to whom. The next I saw of him was in his present service.’

‘Then you are acquainted with the present owner?’ asked I eagerly.

‘As every Frenchman is!’ was the curt rejoinder.

‘Parbleu! it will seem a droll confession, then, when I tell you that I myself do not even know his name.’

The look of contempt these words brought to my companion’s face could not, it seemed, be either repressed or concealed, and although my conscience acquitted me of deserving such a glance, I own that I felt insulted by it.

‘You are pleased to disbelieve me, Master Caillon,’ said I sternly, ‘which makes me suppose that you are neither so old nor so good a soldier as I fancied; at least in the corps I had the honour to serve with, the word of an officer was respected like an “order of the day.”’

He stood erect, as if on parade, under this rebuke, but made no answer.

‘Had you simply expressed surprise at what I said, I would have given you the explanation frankly and freely; as it is, I shall content myself with repeating what I said—I do not even know his name.’

The same imperturbable look and the same silence met me as before.

‘Now, sir, I ask you how this gentleman is called, whom I, alone of all France, am ignorant of?’

‘Monsieur FouchÉ,’ said he calmly.

‘What! FouchÉ, the Minister of Police?’

This time, at least, my agitated looks seemed to move him, for he replied quietly—

‘The same, sir. The horse has the brand of the “MinistÈre” on his haunch.’

‘And where is the MinistÈre?’ cried I eagerly.

‘In the Rue des Victoires, monsieur.’

‘But he lives in the country, in a chÂteau near this very forest.’

‘Where does he not live, monsieur? At Versailles, at St. Germain, in the Luxembourg, in the Marais, at Neuilly, the Batignolles. I have carried despatches to him in every quarter of Paris. Ah, monsieur, what secret are you in possession of, that it was worth while to lay so subtle a trap to catch you?’

This question, put in all the frank abruptness of a sudden thought, immediately revealed everything before me.

‘Is it not as I have said?’ resumed he, still looking at my agitated face; ‘is it not as I have said—-monsieur is in the web of the mouchards?’

‘Good heavens! is such baseness possible?’ was all that I could utter.

‘I’ll wager a piece of five francs I can read the mystery,’ said Jacques. ‘You served on Moreau’s staff, or with Pichegru in Holland; you either have some of the general’s letters, or you can be supposed to have them, at all events; you remember many private conversations held with him on politics; you can charge your memory with a number of strong facts; and you can, if needed, draw up a memoir of all your intercourse. I know the system well, for I was a mouchard myself.’

‘You a police spy, Jacques?’

‘Ay, sir; I was appointed without knowing what services were expected from me, or the duties of my station. Two months’ trial, however, showed that I was “incapable,” and proved that a smart, sous-offieier is not necessarily a scoundrel. They dismissed me as impracticable, and made me garde-chasse; and they were right, too. Whether I was dressed up in a snuff-brown suit, like a bourgeois of the Rue St. Denis; whether they attired me as a farmer from the provinces, a retired maÎtre de poste, an old officer, or the conducteur of a diligence, I was always Jacques Gaillon. Through everything—wigs and beards, lace or rags, jackboots or sabots, it was all alike; and while others could pass weeks in the Pays Latin as students, country doctors, or notaires de village, I was certain to be detected by every brat that walked the streets.’

‘What a system! And so these fellows assume every disguise?’ asked I, my mind full of my late rencontre.

‘That they do, monsieur. There is one fellow, a Provencal by birth, has played more characters than ever did Brunet himself. I have known him as a laquais de place, a cook to an English nobleman, a letter-carrier, a flower-girl, a cornet-À-piston in the opera, and a curÉ from the ArdÈche.’

‘A curÉ from the ArdÈche!’ exclaimed I. ‘Then I am a ruined man.’

‘What! has monsieur fallen in with Paul?’ cried he, laughing. ‘Was he begging for a small contribution to repair the roof of his little chapel, or was it a fire that had devastated his poor village? Did the altar want a new covering, or the curÉ a vestment? Was it a canopy for the FÊte of the Virgin, or a few sous towards the “Orphelines de St. Jude?”’

‘None of these,’ said I, half angrily, for the theme was no jesting one to me. ‘It was a poor girl that had been carried away.’

‘Lisette, the miller’s daughter, or the schoolmaster’s niece?’ broke he in, laughing. ‘He must have known you were new to Paris, monsieur, that he took so little trouble about a deception. And you met him at the “Charrette Rouge” in the Marais?’

‘No; at a little ordinary in the Quai Voltaire.’

‘Better again. Why, half the company there are mouchards. It is one of their rallying-points, where they exchange tokens and information. The labourers, the beggars, the fishermen of the Seine, the hawkers of old books, the vendors of gilt ornaments, are all spies; the most miserable creature that implored charity behind your chair as you sat at dinner has, perhaps, his ten francs a day on the roll of the PrÉfecture! Ah, monsieur! if I had not been a poor pupil of that school, I ‘d have at once seen that you were a victim, and not a follower; but I soon detected my error—my education taught me at least so much!’

I had no relish for the self-gratulation of honest Jacques, uttered, as it was, at my own expense. Indeed I had no thought for anything but the entanglement into which I had so stupidly involved myself; and I could not endure the recollection of my foolish credulity, now that all the paltry machinery of the deceit was brought before me. All my regard, dashed as it was with pity for the poor curÉ; all my compassionate interest for the dear Lisette; all my benevolent solicitude for the sick count, who was neither more nor less than Monsieur FouchÉ himself, were anything but pleasant reminiscences now, and I cursed my own stupidity with an honest sincerity that greatly amused my companion.

‘And is France come to this?’ cried I passionately, and trying to console myself by inveighing against the Government.

‘Even so, sir,’ said Jacques. ‘I heard Monsieur de Talleyrand say as much the other day, as I waited behind his chair. It is only dans les bonnes maisons, said he, “that servants ever listen at the doors.” Depend upon it, then, that a secret police is a strong symptom that we are returning to a monarchy.’

It was plain that even in his short career in the police service, Caillon had acquired certain shrewd habits of thought, and some power of judgment, and so I freely communicated to him the whole of my late adventure, from the moment of my leaving the Temple to the time of my setting out for the chÂteau.

‘You have told me everything but one, monsieur,’ said he, as I finished. ‘How came you ever to have heard the name of so humble a person as Jacques Caillon, for you remember you asked for me as you rode up?’

‘I was just coming to that point, Jacques; and, as you will see, it was not an omission in my narrative, only that I had not reached so far.’

I then proceeded to recount my night in the forest, and my singular meeting with poor Mahon, which he listened to with great attention and some anxiety.

‘The poor colonel!’ said he, breaking in, ‘I suppose he is a hopeless case; his mind can never come right again.’

‘But if the persecution were to cease; if he were at liberty to appear once more in the world——’

‘What if there was no persecution, sir?’ broke in Jacques. ‘What if the whole were a mere dream or fancy? He is neither tracked nor followed. It is not such harmless game the bloodhounds of the Rue des Victoires scent out.’

‘Was it, then, some mere delusion drove him from the service?’ said I, surprised.

‘I never said so much as that,’ replied Jacques. ‘Colonel Mahon has foul injury to complain of, but his present sufferings are the inflictions of his own terror. He fancies that the whole power of France is at war with him; that every engine of the Government is directed against him; with a restless fear he flies from village to village, fancying pursuit everywhere. Even kindness now he is distrustful of; and the chances are, that he will quit the forest this very day, merely because he met you there.’

From being of all men the most open-hearted and frank, he had become the most suspicious; he trusted nothing nor any one; and if for a moment a burst of his old generous nature would return, it was sure to be followed by some excess of distrust that made him miserable almost to despair. Jacques was obliged to fall in with this humour, and only assist him by stealth and by stratagem; he was even compelled to chime in with all his notions about pursuit and danger, to suggest frequent change of place, and endless precautions against discovery.

‘Were I for once to treat him frankly, and ask him to share my home with me,’ said Jacques, ‘I should never see him more.’

‘What could have poisoned so noble a nature?’ cried I. ‘When I saw him last he was the very type of generous confidence.’

‘Where was that, and when?’ asked Jacques.

‘It was at Nancy, on the march for the Rhine.’

‘His calamities had not fallen on him then. He was a proud man in those days, but it was a pride that well became him. He was the colonel of a great regiment, and for bravery had a reputation second to none.’

‘He was married, I think?’

‘No, sir; he was never married.’

As Jacques said this, he arose, and moved slowly away, as though he would not be questioned further. His mind, too, seemed full of its own crowding memories, for he looked completely absorbed in thought, and never noticed my presence for a considerable time. At last he appeared to have decided some doubtful issue within himself, and said—

‘Come, sir, let us stroll into the shade of the wood, and I’ll tell you in a few words the cause of the poor colonel’s ruin—for ruin it is. Even were all the injustice to be revoked to-morrow, the wreck of his heart could never be repaired.’

We walked along, side by side, for some time, before Jacques spoke again, when he gave me, in brief and simple words, the following sorrowful story. It was such a type of the age, so pregnant with the terrible lessons of the time, that although not without some misgivings, I repeat it here as it was told to myself, premising that however scant may be the reader’s faith in many of the incidents of my own narrative—and I neither beg for his trust in me, nor seek to entrap it—I implore him to believe that what I am now about to tell was a plain matter of fact, and, save in the change of one name, not a single circumstance is owing to imagination.