Before the door of the building, made of boards lightly joined together
and decked with mirrors and gay pictures, a stout, pretty woman, in the
bloom of youth, sat in a high arm-chair, pouring rapidly, with remarkable
skill, liquid dough into the hot iron plate, provided with numerous
indentations, that stood just on a level with her comfortably outspread
lap. Her assistant hastily turned with a fork the little cakes, browning
rapidly in the hollows of the iron, and when baked, laid them neatly on
small plates. The waiter prepared them for purchasers by putting a large
piece of yellow butter on the smoking pile. A tempting odor, that only
too vividly recalled former enjoyment, rose from the fireplace, and
Adrian's fingers were already examining the contents of his purse, when
the negro's trumpet sounded and the quack doctor's cart stopped directly
in front of the booth.

The famous Doctor Morpurgo was a fine-looking man, dressed in bright
scarlet, who had a thin, coalblack beard hanging over his breast. His
movements were measured and haughty, the bows and gestures with which he
saluted the assembled crowd, patronizing and affable. After a sufficient
number of curious persons had gathered around his cart, which was stocked
with boxes and vials, he began to address them in broken Dutch, spiced
with numerous foreign words.

He praised the goodness of the Providence which had created the marvel of
human organism. Everything, he said, was arranged and formed wisely and
in the best possible manner, but in one respect nature fared badly in the
presence of adepts.

"Do you know where the error is, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked.

"In the purse," cried a merry barber's clerk, "it grows prematurely thin