departure for Modena.
"And does Tibor speak Italian?" she asked as she rubbed cold cream into her forehead. "Has he studied the language?"
"He'll learn it faster than I learned French. In school he won the Latin prize three years running."
"And is he eager to leave?"
"Quite eager," Andras said. "But he can't go until January."
"And what else interests him besides medicine?"
"Politics. The state of the world."
"Well, that's excusable in a young man. And beyond that? What does he do in his spare time? Does he have a lady friend? Will he have to leave someone behind in Budapest?"
Andras shook his head. "He works night and day. There's no spare time."
"Indeed," said Madame Gerard, swiping at her cheeks with a pink velvet sponge.
She turned a look of bemused inquiry upon Andras, her eyebrows raised in their narrow twin arcs. "And what about you?" she said. "You must have a little friend."
Andras blushed profoundly. He had never discussed the subject with any adult woman, not even his mother. "Not a trace of one," he said.
"I see," said Madame Gerard. "Then perhaps you won't object to a lunch invitation from a friend of mine. A Hungarian woman I know, a talented instructress of ballet, has a daughter a few years younger than you. A very handsome girl by the name of Elisabet. She's tall, blond, brilliant in school--gets high marks in mathematics. Won some sort of city-wide math competition, poor girl. I'm certain she must speak some Hungarian, though she's emphatically French. She might introduce you to some of her friends."
A tall blond girl, emphatically French, who spoke Hungarian and might show him another side of Paris: He could hardly say no to that. In the back of his mind he could hear Rosen telling him he couldn't stay a virgin forever. He found himself saying he'd be delighted to accept the invitation to lunch at the home of Marcelle Gerard's friend.
Madame Gerard wrote the name and address on the back of her own calling card.
"Sunday at noon," she said. "I can't be there myself, I'm afraid. I've already accepted another invitation. But I assure you you've got nothing to fear from Elisabet or her mother." She handed him the card. "They live not far from here, in the Marais."
He glanced at the address, wondering if the house were in the part of the Marais he had visited with his history class; then he experienced a sharp mnemonic tug and had to look again. Morgenstern , Madame Gerard had written. 39 rue de Sevigne .
"Morgenstern," he said aloud.
"Yes. The house is at the corner of the rue d'Ormesson." And then she seemed to notice something strange about Andras's expression. "Is there a problem, my dear?"
He had a momentary urge to tell her about his visit to the house on Benczur utca, about the letter he'd carried to Paris, but he remembered Mrs. Hasz's plea for discretion and recovered quickly. "It's nothing," he said. "It's been a while since I've had to appear in polite company, that's all."
"You'll do splendidly," said Madame Gerard. "You're more of a gentleman than most gentlemen I know." She stood and gave him her queenly smile, a kind of private performance of her own authority and elegance; then she drew her Chinese robe around her and retreated behind the gold-painted lindens of her dressing screen.
...
That night he sat on his bed and looked at the card, the address. He knew that the world of Hungarian expatriates in Paris was a finite one, and that Madame Gerard was well connected within it, but he felt nonetheless that this convergence must have some deeper meaning. He was certain his memory was correct; he hadn't forgotten the name Morgenstern, nor the street name rue de Sevigne. It thrilled him to think he would find out if Tibor had been right when he'd guessed that the letter had been addressed to the elder Mrs. Hasz's former lover. When he arrived at the Morgensterns', would he encounter a silver-haired gentleman--the father-in-law, perhaps, of Madame
"And does Tibor speak Italian?" she asked as she rubbed cold cream into her forehead. "Has he studied the language?"
"He'll learn it faster than I learned French. In school he won the Latin prize three years running."
"And is he eager to leave?"
"Quite eager," Andras said. "But he can't go until January."
"And what else interests him besides medicine?"
"Politics. The state of the world."
"Well, that's excusable in a young man. And beyond that? What does he do in his spare time? Does he have a lady friend? Will he have to leave someone behind in Budapest?"
Andras shook his head. "He works night and day. There's no spare time."
"Indeed," said Madame Gerard, swiping at her cheeks with a pink velvet sponge.
She turned a look of bemused inquiry upon Andras, her eyebrows raised in their narrow twin arcs. "And what about you?" she said. "You must have a little friend."
Andras blushed profoundly. He had never discussed the subject with any adult woman, not even his mother. "Not a trace of one," he said.
"I see," said Madame Gerard. "Then perhaps you won't object to a lunch invitation from a friend of mine. A Hungarian woman I know, a talented instructress of ballet, has a daughter a few years younger than you. A very handsome girl by the name of Elisabet. She's tall, blond, brilliant in school--gets high marks in mathematics. Won some sort of city-wide math competition, poor girl. I'm certain she must speak some Hungarian, though she's emphatically French. She might introduce you to some of her friends."
A tall blond girl, emphatically French, who spoke Hungarian and might show him another side of Paris: He could hardly say no to that. In the back of his mind he could hear Rosen telling him he couldn't stay a virgin forever. He found himself saying he'd be delighted to accept the invitation to lunch at the home of Marcelle Gerard's friend.
Madame Gerard wrote the name and address on the back of her own calling card.
"Sunday at noon," she said. "I can't be there myself, I'm afraid. I've already accepted another invitation. But I assure you you've got nothing to fear from Elisabet or her mother." She handed him the card. "They live not far from here, in the Marais."
He glanced at the address, wondering if the house were in the part of the Marais he had visited with his history class; then he experienced a sharp mnemonic tug and had to look again. Morgenstern , Madame Gerard had written. 39 rue de Sevigne .
"Morgenstern," he said aloud.
"Yes. The house is at the corner of the rue d'Ormesson." And then she seemed to notice something strange about Andras's expression. "Is there a problem, my dear?"
He had a momentary urge to tell her about his visit to the house on Benczur utca, about the letter he'd carried to Paris, but he remembered Mrs. Hasz's plea for discretion and recovered quickly. "It's nothing," he said. "It's been a while since I've had to appear in polite company, that's all."
"You'll do splendidly," said Madame Gerard. "You're more of a gentleman than most gentlemen I know." She stood and gave him her queenly smile, a kind of private performance of her own authority and elegance; then she drew her Chinese robe around her and retreated behind the gold-painted lindens of her dressing screen.
...
That night he sat on his bed and looked at the card, the address. He knew that the world of Hungarian expatriates in Paris was a finite one, and that Madame Gerard was well connected within it, but he felt nonetheless that this convergence must have some deeper meaning. He was certain his memory was correct; he hadn't forgotten the name Morgenstern, nor the street name rue de Sevigne. It thrilled him to think he would find out if Tibor had been right when he'd guessed that the letter had been addressed to the elder Mrs. Hasz's former lover. When he arrived at the Morgensterns', would he encounter a silver-haired gentleman--the father-in-law, perhaps, of Madame
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