Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

to a stare of acute hostility. She knew well that the person wandering towards her was⁠—no, not “that Miss Dobson,” as she had for the fraction of an instant supposed, but the next worst thing.

It has been said that Mélisande indoors was an evidently French maid. Out of doors she was not less evidently Zuleika’s. Not that she aped her mistress. The resemblance had come by force of propinquity and devotion. Nature had laid no basis for it. Not one point of form or colour had the two women in common. It has been said that Zuleika was not strictly beautiful. Mélisande, like most Frenchwomen, was strictly plain. But in expression and port, in her whole tournure, she had become, as every good maid does, her mistress’ replica. The poise of her head, the boldness of her regard and brilliance of her smile, the leisurely and swinging way in which she walked, with a hand on the hip⁠—all these things of hers were Zuleika’s too. She was no conqueror. None but the man to whom she was betrothed⁠—a waiter at the Café Tourtel, named Pelléas⁠—had ever paid court to her; nor was she covetous of other hearts. Yet she looked victorious, and insatiable of victories, and “terrible as an army with banners.”

In the hand that was not on her hip she carried a letter. And on her shoulders she had to bear the full burden of the hatred that Zuleika had inspired in Katie. But this she did not know. She came glancing boldly, leisurely, at the numbers on the front-doors.

Katie stepped back on to the doorstep, lest the inferiority of her stature should mar the effect of her disdain.

“Good day. Is it here that Duke D’Orsay lives?” asked Mélisande, as nearly accurate as a Gaul may be in such matters.

“The Duke of Dorset,” said Katie with a cold and insular emphasis, “lives here.” And “You,” she tried to convey with her eyes, “you, for all your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen to have a hobby for housework. I have not been crying.”

“Then please mount this to him at once,” said Mélisande, holding out the letter. “It is from Miss Dobson’s part. Very express. I wait response.”

“You are very ugly,” Katie signalled with her eyes. “I am very pretty. I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano.” With her lips she said merely, “His Grace is not called before nine o’clock.”

“But today you go wake him now⁠—quick⁠—is it not?”

“Quite out of the question,” said Katie. “If you care to leave that letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace’s breakfast-table, with the morning’s post.” “For the rest,” added her eyes, “Down with France!”

“I find you droll, but droll, my little one!” cried Mélisande.

Katie stepped back and shut the door in her face. “Like a little Empress,” the Emperors commented.

The Frenchwoman threw up her hands and apostrophised heaven. To this day she believes that all the bonnes of Oxford are mad, but mad, and of a madness.

She stared at the door, at the pail and scrubbing-brush that had been shut out with her, at the letter in her hand. She decided that she had better drop the letter into the slit in the door and make report to Miss Dobson.

As the envelope fell through the slit to the doormat, Katie made at Mélisande a grimace which, had not the panels been opaque, would have astonished the Emperors. Resuming her dignity, she picked the thing up, and, at arm’s length, examined it. It was inscribed in pencil. Katie’s lips curled at sight of the large, audacious handwriting. But it is probable that whatever kind of handwriting Zuleika might have had would have been just the kind that Katie would have expected.

Fingering the envelope, she wondered what the wretched woman had to say. It occurred to her that the kettle was simmering on the hob in the kitchen, and that she might easily steam open the envelope and master its contents. However, her doing this would have in no way affected the course of the tragedy. And so the gods (being today in a strictly artistic mood) prompted her to mind her own business.

Laying the Duke’s table for breakfast, she made as usual a neat rectangular pile of the letters that had come for him by post. Zuleika’s letter she threw down askew. That luxury she allowed herself.

And he, when he saw the letter, allowed himself the luxury of leaving it unopened awhile. Whatever its purport, he knew it could but minister to his happy malice. A few hours ago, with what shame and dread it would have stricken him! Now it was a dainty to be dallied with.

His eyes rested on the black tin boxes that contained his robes of the Garter. Hateful had been the sight of them in the watches of the night, when he thought he had worn those robes for the last time. But now⁠—!

He opened Zuleika’s letter. It did not disappoint him.

“Dear Duke⁠—Do, do forgive me. I am beyond words ashamed of the silly tomboyish thing I did last night. Of course it was no worse than that, but an awful fear haunts me that you may have thought I acted in anger at the idea of your breaking your promise to me. Well, it is quite true I had been hurt and angry when you hinted at doing that, but the moment I left you I saw that you had been only in fun, and I enjoyed the joke against myself, though I thought it was rather too bad of you. And then, as a sort of revenge, but almost before I knew what I was doing, I played that idiotic practical joke on you. I have been miserable ever since. Do come round as early as possible and tell me I am forgiven. But before you tell me that, please lecture me till I cry⁠—though indeed