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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
54
Know,
too,
Miss
Dobson,
that
in
the
Peerage
of
France
I
am
Duc
d’Etretat
et
de
la
Roche
Guillaume.
Louis
Napoleon
gave
the
title
to
my
father
for
not
cutting
him
in
the
Bois.
I
have
a
house
in
the
Champs
Elysees.
There
is
a
Swiss
in
its
courtyard.
He
stands
six-foot-seven
in
his
stockings,
and
the
chasseurs
are
hardly
less
tall
than
he.
Wherever
I
go,
there
are
two
chefs
in
my
retinue.
Both
are
masters
in
their
art,
and
furiously
jealous
of
each
other.
When
I
compliment
either
of
them
on
some
dish,
the
other
challenges
him.
They
fight
with
rapiers,
next
morning,
in
the
garden
of
whatever
house
I
am
occupying.
I
do
not
know
whether
you
are
greedy?
If
so,
it
may
interest
you
to
learn
that
I
have
a
third
chef,
who
makes
only
souffles,
and
an
Italian
pastry-cook;
to
say
nothing
of
a
Spaniard
for
salads,
an
Englishwoman
for
roasts,
and
an
Abyssinian
for
coffee.
You
found
no
trace
of
their
handiwork
in
the
meal
you
have
just
had
with
me?
No;
for
in
Oxford
it
is
a
whim
of
mine--I
may
say
a
point
of
honour--to
lead
the
ordinary
life
of
an
undergraduate.
What
I
eat
in
this
room
is
cooked
by
the
heavy
and
unaided
hand
of
Mrs.
Batch,
my
landlady.
It
is
set
before
me
by
the
unaided
and--or
are
you
in
error?--loving
hand
of
her
daughter.
Other
ministers
have
I
none
here.
I
dispense
with
my
private
secretaries.
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