"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 blood-hounds 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 every where; 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 humor, 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."