Yvonne Maison Ladurée doesn’t have the flavor Madeleine likes for her macarons, but they say the new batch will be ready in fifteen minutes. They don’t even promise me anything, they just throw the information at me as if I was her housekeeper. A well-dressed housekeeper, but no one to fawn over. I want to tell them I’m her understudy, and I’m fetching macarons to get into her good graces, so she’ll recommend me for principal roles, and don’t they know to prepare orange blossoms and pistachio macarons for when the great Madeleine Moreau rehearses Tosca? But there’s no point to argue. I just have fifteen minutes to wait. I wander outside the store on Rue Royale to pass the time. I could go to the right, toward the Church of Saint-Marie-Madeleine that a king (Louis XV maybe? I was never good in school) wanted to be a memorable end bracket to the street, the other bracket being the Place de la Concorde with its Egyptian obelisk. The thing is, the church’s name reminds me of Madeleine, and I’m already thinking about her too much, running errands for her when I’m supposed to go and meet my professor from the…