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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
186
Them,
however,
the
Duke
cursed
as
he
fell;
them
again
as
he
raised
himself
on
one
elbow,
giddy
and
sore;
and
when
he
found
that
the
woman
bending
over
him
was
not
she
whom
he
dreaded,
but
her
innocent
maid,
it
was
against
them
that
he
almost
foamed
at
the
mouth.
“Monsieur
le
Duc
has
done
himself
harm--no?”
panted
Melisande.
“Here
is
a
letter
from
Miss
Dobson’s
part.
She
say
to
me
‘Give
it
him
with
your
own
hand.’”
The
Duke
received
the
letter
and,
sitting
upright,
tore
it
to
shreds,
thus
confirming
a
suspicion
which
Melisande
had
conceived
at
the
moment
when
he
took
to
his
heels,
that
all
English
noblemen
are
mad,
but
mad,
and
of
a
madness.
“Nom
de
Dieu,”
she
cried,
wringing
her
hands,
“what
shall
I
tell
to
Mademoiselle?”
“Tell
her--”
the
Duke
choked
back
a
phrase
of
which
the
memory
would
have
shamed
his
last
hours.
“Tell
her,”
he
substituted,
“that
you
have
seen
Marius
sitting
among
the
ruins
of
Carthage,”
and
limped
quickly
away
down
the
Turl.
Both
his
hands
had
been
abraded
by
the
fall.
He
tended
them
angrily
with
his
handkerchief.
Mr.
Druce,
the
chemist,
had
anon
the
privilege
of
bathing
and
plastering
them,
also
of
balming
and
binding
the
right
knee
and
the
left
shin.
“Might
have
been
a
very
nasty
accident,
your
Grace,”
he
said.
“It
was,”
said
the
Duke.
Mr.
Druce
concurred.
Nevertheless,
Mr.
Druce’s
remark
sank
deep.
The
Duke
thought
it
quite
likely
that
the
gods
had
intended
the
accident
to
be
fatal,
and
that
only
by
his
own
skill
and
lightness
in
falling
had
he
escaped
the
ignominy
of
dying
in
full
flight
from
a
lady’s-maid.
He
had
not,
you
see,
lost
all
sense
of
free-will.
While
Mr.
Druce
put
the
finishing
touches
to
his
shin,
“I
am
utterly
purposed,”
he
said
to
himself,
“that
for
this
death
of
mine
I
will
choose
my
own
manner
and
my
own--well,
not
‘time’
exactly,
but
whatever
moment
within
my
brief
span
of
life
shall
seem
aptest
to
me.
Unberufen,”
he
added,
lightly
tapping
Mr.
Druce’s
counter.
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