QUITE ALONE.

BOOK THE SECOND: WOMANHOOD.
CHAPTER XIII. LILY IS SEIZED.

LILY was in haste now to leave those
Elysian Fields, which had exercised so strange a
fascination over her. She was haunted by the
eyes of that painted woman. She wandered
about for full an hour she knew not whither;
dazed by the coloured lamps, the crowds, the
shouts, the braying of bands; the hoarse
rhetoric of the mountebanks, the roaring of the
cannon, which were to usher in the fireworks.
She sought vainly for an outlet from the
saturnalia; but the crowd compassed her about, and
hemmed her in, and on its remotest borders there
seemed to be more shows and more crowds.

She was almost in despair when, thinking to
gain the Place de la Concorde, and in view,
even, of the great obelisk, which from base to
apex was one blaze of light, she found herself
wedged in a mass of sight-seers who were
gathered round the carriage of a quack doctor.
Lily had never seen the Elisir d'Amore, but
there, as large as life was Doctor Dulcamara.
He had deviated a little from the costume on
which the late admirable Lablache conferred
well-merited fame, inasmuch as over his well-
powdered periwig he wore a Roman helmet of
brass, with a tremendous plume of crimson
horsehair; but the scarlet coat, the frills, the
ruffles, the top-boots, the buckskin, the watch
and pendulous seals, the snuff-box, the signet-
ring, and the gold-headed cane, all belonged to
the opera. He was an impudent vagabond, at
best; but had the flow of flashy verbiage
common to his tribe, and scores of hands were
speedily extended from the crowd beneath him,
holding francs and half francs to be exchanged
for the worthless nostrums he extolled so
highly.

His calèche, and the white horse that drew
it, to boot, were quite a bower of Chinese
lanterns; and in the rumble sat his servant, who
was attired as a drum-major in the Imperial
Guard, whose business it was to be the butt of
his master's jokes, and grind the barrel-organ
when Dulcamara was out of breath. The under
quack was a fellow of cadaverous traits and
discontented mien, and appeared heartily ashamed
of his position. He had reason to be. He was
the real doctor. His diploma and license to
practise were duly certified by the Faculty of
Paris, and without them Dulcamara would have
been hauled to prison as a swindler: but the
genuine physician being poor and idle, and
dissolute and drunken, the quack was content to
pay him so much a year to use his diploma;
and he filled up his leisure time by grinding the
barrel-organ. "On demande un médecin pour
voyager." Have you never seen that
advertisement in Les Petites Affiches? It means that
Dulcamara the quack is in want of an organ-
grinder with a diploma.

"Approach, my children," the mountebank
was bawling. "Approach, lose no time. I
have but a few moments to bestow upon you.
I am wanted elsewhere. Kings and princesses
sigh for my presence. Spanish hidalgos, who
have eaten too much olla podrida—English
milords, agonised by the spleen—refuse to be
comforted without me. Grand Biribi—(this to
the melancholy man, with the diploma)—strike
up the chanson à boire from Robert le Diable.
After that we shall have something to say about
the Imperial Soporific and Atomic Tincture of
Honolulu."

An hour ago, in her recklessness, Lily might
have been for a moment detained by the
loquacity of this bombastic humbug. But it was
too late now. The awful consciousness of her
miserable position had come upon her; and
some inward voice kept thundering in her ears
that she was in danger—from she knew not
what; and that she must fly—she knew not
where.

Exerting more strength than she had
imagined she possessed, she contrived, at last, to
disengage herself from the throng, and to reach
a space which was less encumbered. She leant
up against a tree, sick and faint. Her poor
eyes were blinded with tears. Her strength
had broken down. Her enterprise seemed to
her, now, impossible of accomplishment. That
dreadful fever was racking her head again.
Heaven be merciful to her—what had she done,
and what was she to do?

"Pretty little demoiselle, you seem ill," a
voice behind her said.

She had heard the voice before. It was that
of the man who had declared that all weapons
and umbrellas must be left at the door. She
turned her head, trembling, and saw the Italian
waxwork showman.