loveliest morning, haven't we, Monsieur Rapskeller? Dear me, what

your friend knows about gardens, Hector! You remember my poor

plantain lilies, don't you?"

"Mmm . . ."

"Every summer, they get more and more charred-and they're

always in shade! Monsieur Rapskeller found they were getting sunlight by refraction. Bouncing right off the kitchen window, do you see?

As for the crocuses . . . well, the squirrels got them, as usual, but your

friend knows a sauce from-where again, Monsieur?"

"Martinique."

"It's got peppers in it and garlic and I don't know what else. You

soak the bulbs before you plant them, and the little beasties want nothing more to do with them."

The shock of finding my mother in this condition gives way to a

larger dazzlement. The sun, the air. The garden itself: hawthorn fruits;

carnations sprawling across the mossy brick wall; a scouting party of

leaves in the plane trees.

"And do you know what else I learned?" says Mother. "Azaleas dote

on coffee! Who would have guessed? You know, I can't help thinking,

Monsieur, that when you come into the Vicomte's fortune, you'll have

a whole retinue of gardeners to do this for you."

Charles knows nothing of any vicomte, but he answers without a

moment's hesitation.

"Oh no, Madame. I shan't have anyone do it but me. The plants always know you, don't they? They know your touch, your voice, too, I be

lieve that. If anyone else talked to them, they mightn't behave so well." "Plants with eardrums ! " shrieks my mother. "Ha-ha! " Yes, it's true. She laughs.

Which is to say her teeth, brown with hiding, surge toward the

light, shivering apart the lips that had thought to contain them. No

one is more stunned than my mother. She drops her parasol and slaps

a hand to each side of her head, as though to assure herself that she's

still in one piece.

And as quickly as that laugh stole over her, a new mood sweeps

down. She beholds her bare feet, she feels the tickle of the honeysuckle

vine round her ear. Her eyes blacken, and in the next second, she's half

striding, half running toward the house.

"I'm afraid I'm . . . you'll excuse me . . . errands. . . ." I have an errand of my own. For the rest of the afternoon, I stretch