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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
125
“Demain
soir,
oui.
Il
sera
parmi
nous,”
said
the
novelist,
as
she
hurried
him
away.
“Moi
aussi,”
she
added
to
herself,
“je
me
promets
un
beau
plaisir
en
faisant
la
connaissance
de
ce
jeune
homme.”
Zuleika
was
the
first
to
rise
as
“ce
jeune
homme”
came
down
from
the
dais.
Now
was
the
interval
between
the
two
parts
of
the
programme.
There
was
a
general
creaking
and
scraping
of
pushed-back
chairs
as
the
audience
rose
and
went
forth
into
the
night.
The
noise
aroused
from
sleep
the
good
Warden,
who,
having
peered
at
his
programme,
complimented
the
Duke
with
old-world
courtesy
and
went
to
sleep
again.
Zuleika,
thrusting
her
fan
under
one
arm,
shook
the
player
by
both
hands.
Also,
she
told
him
that
she
knew
nothing
about
music
really,
but
that
she
knew
what
she
liked.
As
she
passed
with
him
up
the
aisle,
she
said
this
again.
People
who
say
it
are
never
tired
of
saying
it.
Outside,
the
crowd
was
greater
than
ever.
All
the
undergraduates
from
all
the
Colleges
seemed
now
to
be
concentrated
in
the
great
Front
Quadrangle
of
Judas.
Even
in
the
glow
of
the
Japanese
lanterns
that
hung
around
in
honour
of
the
concert,
the
faces
of
the
lads
looked
a
little
pale.
For
it
was
known
by
all
now
that
the
Duke
was
to
die.
Even
while
the
concert
was
in
progress,
the
news
had
spread
out
from
the
Hall,
through
the
thronged
doorway,
down
the
thronged
steps,
to
the
confines
of
the
crowd.
Nor
had
Oover
and
the
other
men
from
the
Junta
made
any
secret
of
their
own
determination.
And
now,
as
the
rest
saw
Zuleika
yet
again
at
close
quarters,
and
verified
their
remembrance
of
her,
the
half-formed
desire
in
them
to
die
too
was
hardened
to
a
vow.
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