_Barnstaple_. But you shall borrow it--you shall be even finer than he is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism. _Ansard_. How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I am all impatience. _Barnstaple_. His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest--here is the secret. You must visit it at _night_. Instead of "glorious beams," you will talk of "pale melancholy light;" instead of "the stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile," you must "darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon." The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands of wax tapers--the splendid fret--work of the roof you must regret was not to be clearly distinguished--but you must be in ecstasies with the broad light and shade--the blaze at the altar--solemn hour of night-- feelings of awe--half a Catholic--religious reflections, etcetera. Don't you perceive? _Ansard_. I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be all _moonshine_. It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to help me with? _Barnstaple_. Have you talked about cooks? _Ansard_. As yet, not a word. _Barnstaple_. By this time you ought to have some knowledge of gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating. _Ansard_. (_writes_.) I have made a memo. _Barnstaple_. Have you had no affront? _Ansard_. Not one. B. Then be seriously affronted--complain to the burgomaster, or mayor, or commandant, whoever it may be--they attempt to bully--you are resolute and firm as an Englishman--insist upon being righted--they must make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity, and be read with interest. _Ansard_. (_writes_.) I have been affronted. Anything else which may proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple? _Barnstaple_. Have you had a serious illness? _Ansard_. Never complained even of a headache. _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 Stael? _Ansard_. No--how the devil am I to bring her in?