1887
The abbey garden was Sister Clemence's pride and joy. She spent hours every spring, purchasing and planting seeds. Summer was spent watering and tending to her little sprouts. No matter how dry the summer, Sister Clemence's seeds always had enough to drink. When autumn came, she harvested her fruits and vegetables and proudly delivered them to Sister Antoine in the kitchen. Christine had always loved the garden and, from a young age, Sister Clemence had allowed her to tend it. This was quite an accomplishment, for Sister Clemence's garden was usually off-limits to everyone but the nun herself. Christine, however, had as green a thumb as any true gardener and was allowed, in her free time, to tend to the little seedlings.
This was what she was doing now.
It was mid-July and Paris was hot. After half an hour in the sunny garden, Christine had stripped her to chemise and petticoats. Her thick wool overdress lay at the feet of St. Francis of Assisi's statue. Her skin was sticky with sweat and her pale face was flushed. Her stubborn red curls had fought their way out from underneath her scarf and now hung around her face. All the nuns were in prayer; no one would see her. She sang to herself as she worked, an old hymn Sister Nadine had taught her.
"You have a very pretty voice."
Christine jumped at the unfamiliar voice. She looked up. There was a boy, sitting on the high abbey wall. He had bare feet and his trousers were patched and dirty. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, jumping to her feet in a panic. Her spade and shovel fell to the ground, unheeded.
"I was walking in the street and I heard you singing," he explained. "I thought it was coming from the church at first, but I peeked over the wall and saw you instead. You sounded like an angel."
Christine was flattered, whether she wanted to be or not. "Do you want to … uh … come down?" she asked awkwardly. The boy smiled and jumped nimbly down from the wall, landing in a catlike crouch. He straightened and walked over to her. She smiled hesitantly. "How do you do?"
"Much better, not sitting on that wall anymore." He laughed. Christine smiled again; she liked this boy's laugh. It wasn't the polite titter she often heard from the nuns, but loud and boisterous. In fact, everything about the boy seemed boisterous. He had sandy brown hair that stuck up at odd angles and his tanned face was covered in freckles. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Adrien," he announced. She was a little startled, having realized she'd been staring openly at him. Of course she'd seen boys before, but she'd never really talked to one, especially not a boy so close to her own age. "And what's your name?"
"Oh. Right. Marie-Christine."
"Well, Marie-Christine … do you work here?" he asked, eying the abbey. She shook her head. He frowned. "Don't tell me you live here!" She nodded. "But only nuns live at the abbey and you're not a nun … are you?"
She laughed. "No, of course not."
"Yeah, I figured you were a little too young. And you haven't really got the … you know. The nun dress? In fact…" He squinted at Christine. "You don't seem to be wearing any dress at all."
She looked down, confused. "What do you … oh Mon Dieu."
"No, don't worry. I don't mind." The boy grinned. Christine, her face slowly growing hotter and hotter, rushed over to where she'd tossed her dress before. She quickly pulled it on, groaning as the itchy wool scratched against her skin. She struggled with the buttons up and down the front of her dress.
"That's quite a dress there," Adrien remarked. "Maybe you are a nun." Christine made a face. "Oh, then why live in the abbey?"
"It's my home. I've lived here all my life, ever since I was a baby. The nuns found me, abandoned inside the church, and they took me in." It was Adrien's turn to make a face. Christine, who herself had complained about the abbey more than once, felt a twinge of resentment. "It's better than on the streets," she insisted.
"I might argue that point. I think the streets are a fine place, long as it's not too cold."
He turned her around and beginning to button up the back of her dress. His hands were calloused and rough, but they made quick work of the buttons. Christine shivered in spite of the day's heat; the feel of his fingers on her skin gave her goose bumps. "I'd do anything not to be on the streets. Not to know what your next meal is going to be, if you're even going to have a next meal … not to know where you're going to sleep, what you'll do if you get sick, if you get hurt. Not to have anything?"
Adrien laughed. "That's the excitement of life. Freedom, adventure, independence … You couldn't understand, you're too boring."
"Boring?"
"Yes." Adrien flashed her that bright smile of his. She was beginning really like it. "I might … just … fall … asleep … listening … to … you … talk." He flopped down on his back on the grass.
"I'm not that dull!" she exclaimed, sinking down to the grass next to him. "… Am I?"
He sat up and grinned. The worried look that had momentarily crossed Christine's blue eyes disappeared. "No, I rather like listening to you. You've got a very pretty voice, but I liked it better when you were singing."
"You really liked that?" Christine plucked a flower from the grass and twirled it in her fingers, letting the curtain of red hair hide her blushing face. The yellow flower was a weed, pis-en-lit. Sister Clemence hated them, but Sister Antoine, after discovering a patch growing rampant in the garden, had created such a soup that the nuns had insisted the weeds stay.
"Yes, you were beautiful." She turned to look at him. "Your voice, I mean. It was beautiful." She smiled up at him, and he coughed awkwardly. "Uh, that's a pretty flower."
She shrugged. "Just a weed."
"Ah, a bastard flower." Christine giggled. "Tough, hard to kill, a street rat like me. But it's still pretty, isn't it?" He leaned over to the rosebush and plucked a pink rose. He handed it to Christine. "And this one?"
"A rose, of course."
"Ah, right. Fragile, sweet, pure… and so beautiful." She looked up at Adrien's face, sure she could feel him watching her. But no, his gaze was aimed directly at the rose in her hands. "Do you think they could ever …"
"Ever what?"
"Ever fall in love."
"No, silly, they're…" She looked up again; Adrien's eyes met hers and she suddenly knew what he meant. "Flowers…"
In case you were wondering, the flower was a dandelion. Dandelion is actually a corruption of the French phrase "dents de lion" but "pis-en-lit" is a nickname for the weed because it is a diuretic.
