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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
286
Her
jewel-box
stood
open,
to
receive
the
jewels
she
wore
to-night.
She
went
very
calmly
to
it.
There,
in
a
corner
of
the
topmost
tray,
rested
the
two
great
white
pearls--the
pearls
which,
in
one
way
and
another,
had
meant
so
much
to
her.
“Melisande!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“When
we
go
to
Paris,
would
you
like
to
make
a
little
present
to
your
fiance?”
“Je
voudrais
bien,
mademoiselle.”
“Then
you
shall
give
him
these,”
said
Zuleika,
holding
out
the
two
studs.
“Mais
jamais
de
la
vie!
Chez
Tourtel
tout
le
monde
le
dirait
millionaire.
Un
garcon
de
cafe
qui
porte
au
plastron
des
perles
pareilles--merci!”
“Tell
him
he
may
tell
every
one
that
they
were
given
to
me
by
the
late
Duke
of
Dorset,
and
given
by
me
to
you,
and
by
you
to
him.”
“Mais--”
The
protest
died
on
Melisande’s
lips.
Suddenly
she
had
ceased
to
see
the
pearls
as
trinkets
finite
and
inapposite--saw
them
as
things
presently
transmutable
into
little
marble
tables,
bocks,
dominos,
absinthes
au
sucre,
shiny
black
portfolios
with
weekly
journals
in
them,
yellow
staves
with
daily
journals
flapping
from
them,
vermouths
secs,
vermouths
cassis...
“Mademoiselle
is
too
amiable,”
she
said,
taking
the
pearls.
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