Part 54 (1/2)
_A._ That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that _fact_?
_B._ 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 no where to be found--quite in despair--walk to the hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garcons, 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._
_Ans._ Capital! that last was a _hit_. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that n.o.body will be able to prove. (_Yawns._) Heigho! I have only got half-way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter.
(_Nods, and then falls fast asleep_).
_Barnstaple taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters._
_B._ So--quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (_Reads the ma.n.u.script on the table_). No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!
_A._ (_starting up, still half asleep._) Already? Why, I've hardly shut my eyes. Well, I'll be dressed directly; let them get some _cafe_ ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired? (_Nods again with his eyes shut._)
_B._ Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?
_A._ (_waking up._) Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day's journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post.
_B._ All the better--you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?
_A._ Thank you--pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.
_B._ And how far have you got?
_A._ Half way--that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I'm very glad that you're come to my a.s.sistance, Barnstaple; for, to tell you the truth, I was breaking down.
_B._ Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.
_A._ That I can repair without your a.s.sistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion----
_B._ So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a _Poodle_.
_A._ A _Poodle_! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be a.s.sisted by a poodle?
_B._ He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion, than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage--what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the _garcons_ of the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases, and wind up every third chapter with ”your faithful Mouton.”
_A._ Will not all that be considered frivolous?
_B._ Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does not at all a.s.sist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly inbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him.
Besides it will go far to a.s.sist the versimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you.
_A._ All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like that of Aaron's, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him?
_B._ (_thinks awhile._) Not less than forty louis.
_A._ Forty louis for a poodle!
_B._ Most certainly; not a sous less. The value of anything in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a five franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to amuse the reader.