“Not in the least; and if I were in torture, that glorious cheer outside would rally me. Hear!--listen!--the soldiers are in full retreat; the people, the noble-hearted people, are the conquerors!” “Be calm, and think of yourself,” said Lady Dorothea, mildly, to her; “such excitement may peril your very life.” “And it is worth a thousand lives to taste of it,” said she, while her cheek flushed, and her dark eyes gleamed with added lustre. “The street is clear now,” said one of the servants to Martin, “and we might reach the Boulevard with ease.” “Let us go, then,” said Lady Dorothea. “Let us look to _her_ and think of nothing till she be cared for.” CHAPTER IX. SOME CONFESSIONS OF JACK MASSINGBRED Upon two several occasions have we committed to Jack Massingbred the task of conducting this truthful history; for the third time do we now purpose to make his correspondence the link between the past and what is to follow. We are not quite sure that the course we thus adopt is free from its share of inconvenience, but we take it to avoid the evils of reiteration inseparable from following out the same events from merely different points of view. There is also another advantage to be gained. Jack is before our readers; we are not. Jack is an acquaintance; we cannot aspire to that honor. Jack's opinions, right or wrong as they may be, are part and parcel of a character already awaiting their verdict. What he thought and felt, hoped, feared, or wished, are the materials by which he is to be judged; and so we leave his cause in his own hands. His letter is addressed to the same correspondent to whom he wrote before. It is written, too, at different intervals, and in different moods of mind. Like the letters of many men who practise concealment with the world at large, it is remarkable for great frankness and sincerity. He throws away his mask with such evident signs of enjoyment that we only wonder if he can ever resume it; but crafty men like to relax into candor, as royalty is said to indulge with pleasure in the chance moments of pretended equality. It is, at all events, a novel sensation; and even that much, in this routine life of ours, is something! He writes from Spa, and after some replies to matters with which we have no concern, proceeds thus:--