lady who, deep down in her heart of hearts, does not crave to be acquainted with the mysteries of love?
On the way to the duel these were the thoughts of Colonel Sükray who, as a young lieutenant had nowhere near the sacred regard for the tenth commandment he professed now, when unclean hands threatened the fragrant rosebud in his possession.
Each dueler wore a black silk shirt over his bare chest and on the second passage of arms the Colonelâs fiery lunge left him impaled on the Frenchmanâs épée, like a magpie on a hedgethorn. The wound penetrated the heart and proved fatal within seconds.
The two captains solemnly adjured the roving chevalier to leave town before they took steps to expel him. The Frenchman announced that he could only do so after he apologized to the Colonelâs widow...He asked the gentlemen to remain with the corpse until his return, whereupon he would immediately depart from town.
The stunned officers looked askance at each other. The astonishing brazenness of the Frenchman rendered them speechless. A resurgent spout of blood from the corpseâs chest signaled the dead manâs awareness of his impending dishonor.
âHow much time do you need?â asked Captain Asszonyfái.
âHalf an hour.â
âHurry up.â
The Frenchman grabbed his overcoat, put on his stovepipe hat, and left the scene of the duel with rapid strides. We have no way of knowing whether he in fact looked up the blonde lady to notify her of the sad news, in lieu of the reluctant officers. Eveline, the only one who knew the circumstances, preferred to keep silent. Many are the meetings about which women maintain a wise silence.
Asszonyfái and Leiningen stood guard by their Colonelâs corpse until nightfall, as if it were the Saviourâs body on Good Friday. Then they placed the cadaver on a cart and had it taken to the cemetery. Eveline wore mourning for the first time. Her blonde hair, white neck, and rustling skirts soon landed a second husband. He was Mr. Paul Burman, a high government official at Buda.
Mr. Burman had remained a bachelor until the age of forty-five, just like the late Colonel, for whom Eveline had the Requiem sung at every church in the capital. Paul Burman was a dashing, witty, and ceremonious gentleman, a welcome guest in the townhouses of the upper-crust bourgeois and wealthier merchant families. Gentlemen in those days still knew how to keep secrets, and Mr. Burman never allowed a single look to betray the women who had favored him with their graces once upon a time. The only telltale fact allowing some insight into his former lifestyle was that Mr. Burman was as familiar as a seamstress with the trade secrets of feminine wear. He had more than a passing acquaintance with those white stockings that grandmothers tirelessly knitted so that their daughters could always wear spotless white hosiery on their outings to the Buda hills. Mr. Burman had intimate knowledge of those butterfly knots tied above the knee, on garter ribbons that coyly showed themselves only in moonlight. Flannel knickers with those long, zigzag stitches persisted as faithful friends in his memory. He was able to remove, with a single twist of his hand, sensible shoes of the âEberlastingâ brand from petite female feet. He knew all about the monograms embroidered on shirtfronts over the heart, the loving labors of poor girls who ruined their eyes. After all, the ladies of Pest had always taken great pains over their wardrobes. Their petticoats had sparkling clean edges, with adorable frills. Surely these women must have been constantly washing and ironing when they were alone.
Mr. Burman never, not once, let on what an awful lot he knew about the clandestine amulets on necklaces concealed under womenâs garments. For his afternoon naps at home his head reposed on a silken cushion stuffed with female hair, curls that women bestow only on especially favored lovers; he had
On the way to the duel these were the thoughts of Colonel Sükray who, as a young lieutenant had nowhere near the sacred regard for the tenth commandment he professed now, when unclean hands threatened the fragrant rosebud in his possession.
Each dueler wore a black silk shirt over his bare chest and on the second passage of arms the Colonelâs fiery lunge left him impaled on the Frenchmanâs épée, like a magpie on a hedgethorn. The wound penetrated the heart and proved fatal within seconds.
The two captains solemnly adjured the roving chevalier to leave town before they took steps to expel him. The Frenchman announced that he could only do so after he apologized to the Colonelâs widow...He asked the gentlemen to remain with the corpse until his return, whereupon he would immediately depart from town.
The stunned officers looked askance at each other. The astonishing brazenness of the Frenchman rendered them speechless. A resurgent spout of blood from the corpseâs chest signaled the dead manâs awareness of his impending dishonor.
âHow much time do you need?â asked Captain Asszonyfái.
âHalf an hour.â
âHurry up.â
The Frenchman grabbed his overcoat, put on his stovepipe hat, and left the scene of the duel with rapid strides. We have no way of knowing whether he in fact looked up the blonde lady to notify her of the sad news, in lieu of the reluctant officers. Eveline, the only one who knew the circumstances, preferred to keep silent. Many are the meetings about which women maintain a wise silence.
Asszonyfái and Leiningen stood guard by their Colonelâs corpse until nightfall, as if it were the Saviourâs body on Good Friday. Then they placed the cadaver on a cart and had it taken to the cemetery. Eveline wore mourning for the first time. Her blonde hair, white neck, and rustling skirts soon landed a second husband. He was Mr. Paul Burman, a high government official at Buda.
Mr. Burman had remained a bachelor until the age of forty-five, just like the late Colonel, for whom Eveline had the Requiem sung at every church in the capital. Paul Burman was a dashing, witty, and ceremonious gentleman, a welcome guest in the townhouses of the upper-crust bourgeois and wealthier merchant families. Gentlemen in those days still knew how to keep secrets, and Mr. Burman never allowed a single look to betray the women who had favored him with their graces once upon a time. The only telltale fact allowing some insight into his former lifestyle was that Mr. Burman was as familiar as a seamstress with the trade secrets of feminine wear. He had more than a passing acquaintance with those white stockings that grandmothers tirelessly knitted so that their daughters could always wear spotless white hosiery on their outings to the Buda hills. Mr. Burman had intimate knowledge of those butterfly knots tied above the knee, on garter ribbons that coyly showed themselves only in moonlight. Flannel knickers with those long, zigzag stitches persisted as faithful friends in his memory. He was able to remove, with a single twist of his hand, sensible shoes of the âEberlastingâ brand from petite female feet. He knew all about the monograms embroidered on shirtfronts over the heart, the loving labors of poor girls who ruined their eyes. After all, the ladies of Pest had always taken great pains over their wardrobes. Their petticoats had sparkling clean edges, with adorable frills. Surely these women must have been constantly washing and ironing when they were alone.
Mr. Burman never, not once, let on what an awful lot he knew about the clandestine amulets on necklaces concealed under womenâs garments. For his afternoon naps at home his head reposed on a silken cushion stuffed with female hair, curls that women bestow only on especially favored lovers; he had
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