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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
15
Already,
indeed,
she
was
rich.
She
was
living
at
the
most
exorbitant
hotel
in
all
Mayfair.
She
had
innumerable
gowns
and
no
necessity
to
buy
jewels;
and
she
also
had,
which
pleased
her
most,
the
fine
cheval-glass
I
have
described.
At
the
close
of
the
Season,
Paris
claimed
her
for
a
month’s
engagement.
Paris
saw
her
and
was
prostrate.
Boldini
did
a
portrait
of
her.
Jules
Bloch
wrote
a
song
about
her;
and
this,
for
a
whole
month,
was
howled
up
and
down
the
cobbled
alleys
of
Montmartre.
And
all
the
little
dandies
were
mad
for
“la
Zuleika.”
The
jewellers
of
the
Rue
de
la
Paix
soon
had
nothing
left
to
put
in
their
windows--everything
had
been
bought
for
“la
Zuleika.”
For
a
whole
month,
baccarat
was
not
played
at
the
Jockey
Club--every
member
had
succumbed
to
a
nobler
passion.
For
a
whole
month,
the
whole
demi-monde
was
forgotten
for
one
English
virgin.
Never,
even
in
Paris,
had
a
woman
triumphed
so.
When
the
day
came
for
her
departure,
the
city
wore
such
an
air
of
sullen
mourning
as
it
had
not
worn
since
the
Prussians
marched
to
its
Elysee.
Zuleika,
quite
untouched,
would
not
linger
in
the
conquered
city.
Agents
had
come
to
her
from
every
capital
in
Europe,
and,
for
a
year,
she
ranged,
in
triumphal
nomady,
from
one
capital
to
another.
In
Berlin,
every
night,
the
students
escorted
her
home
with
torches.
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