Barnstaple. Then do everything but die—Henri weeping and inconsolable—Mouton howling at the foot of your bed—kick the surgeons out of the room—and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne.
Ansard. (writes.) Very sick—cured with three dozen of champagne—I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the cure gratis. Go on, my dear Barnstaple.
Barnstaple. You may work in an episode here—delirium—lucid intervals—gentle female voice—delicate attentions—mysterious discovery from loquacious landlady—eternal gratitude—but no marriage—an apostrophe—and all the rest left to conjecture.
Ansard. (writes down.) Silent attentions—conjecture—I can manage that, I think.
Barnstaple. By the bye, have you brought in Madame de Staël?
Ansard. No—how the devil am I to bring her in?
Barnstaple. As most other travellers do, by the head and shoulders. Never mind that, so long as you bring her in.
Ansard. (writes). Madame de Staël by the shoulders—that’s not very polite towards a lady. These hints are invaluable; pray go on.
Barnstaple. Why, you have already more hints this morning than are sufficient for three volumes. But, however, let me see. (Barnstaple thinks a little). Find yourself short of cash.
Ansard. A sad reality, Barnstaple. I shall write this part well, for truth will guide my pen.