Ansard. Perfectly. I can manage all that.
Barnstaple. Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time, feel sea-sick.
Ansard. On shore?
Barnstaple. Yes; reel about, not able to stand—every symptom as if on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state the fact.
Ansard. The fact! O Barnstaple!
Barnstaple. That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things.
Ansard. That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that fact?
Barnstaple. No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure—be separated from it—some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise—it is nowhere to be found—quite in despair—walk to the Hotel d’Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garçons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready—ascend to your bedroom—find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out—your portmanteau unstrapped—your trunk uncorded—and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile de malice, having installed himself as your domestique de place—take him for his impudence—praise the “Cotelettes and the vin de Beaune”—wish the reader good night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter.
(Ansard gets up and takes Barnstaple’s hand, which he shakes warmly without speaking. Barnstaple smiles and walks out. Ansard is left hard at work at his desk.)
Arthur Ansard in his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand.