About two-thirds down one of the wealthiest streets in Paris stood an impressive mansion. Behind it stretched a large garden where ancient chestnut trees grew so tall their branches reached over the walls, scattering delicate pink and white blossoms each spring onto the stone vases that decorated an ornate iron gate dating back centuries. Despite its striking beauty, with geraniums spilling from decorative vases, their scarlet blooms swaying in the breeze, this grand entrance had been abandoned years ago. The mansion’s owners had closed off this section, which once led to a sizeable kitchen garden. A developer had bought that land, planning to build a new street and make a fortune. But the project fell through, and now the property sat neglected, rented cheaply to market gardeners for a mere five hundred francs a year. The iron gate had rusted shut, and wooden boards covered it to prevent the workers from peering into the aristocratic grounds. The kitchen garden itself had fallen into disrepair, with only sparse patches of clover where vegetables once thrived. On the mansion’s side, however, the garden remained lush. Chestnut trees towered overhead while flowers and shrubs crowded together, fighting for light and space. In one particularly shaded corner, a large stone bench and rustic seats suggested someone favored this secluded spot. The mansion itself was barely visible through the thick greenery, though it stood less than a hundred paces away. Whoever chose this hidden place had excellent taste. No harsh sunlight penetrated here, even during the hottest summer days. Cool shade reigned supreme, birds sang constantly, and all the noise and chaos of the street and household faded away completely. On an unusually warm spring evening, a book, parasol, and embroidery basket lay scattered on the stone bench. A young woman stood close to the boarded gate, trying to see through the gaps between the planks. Her tense posture and intense focus revealed how desperately she wanted to glimpse what lay on the other side. Just then, a small gate from the abandoned land creaked open silently. A tall, powerfully built young man slipped through. He wore common work clothes, a gray work shirt and cloth cap, but his carefully styled hair and groomed black beard seemed oddly elegant for such rough attire. After glancing around to ensure no one watched, he secured the gate behind him and hurried toward the barrier. Seeing him approach, though startled by his disguise, the young woman nearly fled in panic. But the young man had already spotted the flutter of her white dress and blue sash through the wooden slats. Pressing his lips close to the boards, he called out, "Don’t be alarmed, Valentine, it’s me!" The frightened girl gathered her courage and returned to the gate. "Why are you so late today? It’s almost dinner time. I had to work so hard to escape from my watchful stepmother, my overly devoted maid, and my annoying brother who keeps pestering me about my embroidery, which at this rate I’ll never finish. So explain yourself, and then tell me why you’re dressed so strangely I barely recognized you." "Dearest Valentine," the young man said, "the difference between our social positions makes me afraid to speak of my love, but I can’t stand here without wanting to pour out my heart. The fact that you even noticed I was late gives me hope that you were thinking of me, at least a little. You asked why I’m late and why I’m disguised. I’ll explain honestly and hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve taken up a trade." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝕟𝕖𝕥 "A trade? Maximilian, how can you joke when we have so much to worry about?" "I would never joke about something dearer to me than life itself! Listen, Valentine, and I’ll explain everything. I got tired of wandering fields and climbing walls. I was seriously worried about what you said, that if your father caught me lurking around, he’d probably have me arrested as a thief. That would disgrace the French army, not to mention that a military captain hanging around here with no obvious purpose would raise suspicions. So I became a gardener and dressed for the job." "What absolute nonsense, Maximilian!" "Nonsense? Don’t call the wisest decision of my life by that name. Think about it, by becoming a gardener, I’ve made our meetings completely safe and innocent." "Please, Maximilian, stop teasing and tell me what you really mean." "Simply this: I found out this piece of land was available for rent, so I applied for it. The owner accepted immediately, and now I’m the proud master of this clover field. Think of it, Valentine! There’s nothing stopping me from building a small cottage on my property and living less than twenty yards from you. Can you imagine? The happiness seems almost impossible. And I get all this joy, this precious opportunity to be near you, for just five hundred francs a year, paid quarterly. We have nothing to fear anymore. I’m on my own land with every right to put up a ladder against the wall and look over whenever I want, without worrying about the police treating me like a criminal. I can tell you how deeply and faithfully I love you whenever you visit this spot, unless, of course, your pride won’t let you hear declarations of love from a poor working man in a work shirt and cap." Valentine let out a soft cry of mixed delight and surprise, but almost immediately her tone turned sad, as though a dark cloud had covered her joy. "Alas, no, Maximilian, this can’t be, for many reasons. We’d be presuming too much on our own self-control. Like others before us, we might be led astray by blind confidence in each other." "How can you think such an unworthy thought, dear Valentine? Haven’t I, from the very first moment we met, shaped all my words and actions to match your feelings and wishes? You trust my honor completely, don’t you? When you told me you felt some vague danger approaching, I devoted myself to helping you, asking nothing in return but the privilege of being useful. Have I ever, by word or look, given you reason to regret choosing me from all those who would gladly sacrifice their lives for you? You told me you’re engaged to Mr. d’Epinay, and that your father insists the marriage go forward, and that his will is absolute since he never changes his mind once it’s made up. I stayed in the background as you wished, waiting, not for your heart’s decision or mine, but hoping fate would intervene on our behalf and arrange things in our favor. What do delays or difficulties matter to me, Valentine, as long as you admit you love me and feel sorry for me? If you’ll just repeat those words now and then, I can endure anything." "Ah, Maximilian, that’s exactly what makes you so bold and what makes me both happy and unhappy at the same time. I often wonder if I’m better off enduring my stepmother’s harshness and her blind favoritism toward her own son, or being as I am now, unable to enjoy anything except these dangerous meetings." "I won’t accept that word ’dangerous,’" the young man protested. "It’s cruel and unfair. Could there be a more obedient servant than me? You’ve allowed me to talk with you occasionally, but forbidden me from following you anywhere. Haven’t I obeyed? And since I found a way into this garden to exchange a few words through this gate, to be close to you without really seeing you, have I ever asked even to touch the hem of your dress or tried to cross this barrier, which would be nothing for someone my age and strength? Never have I complained or grumbled. I’ve kept my promises as strictly as any knight of old. Come now, dearest Valentine, admit what I say is true, or I’ll be tempted to call you unfair." "It’s true," Valentine said, slipping her slender fingers through a small gap in the boards and allowing Maximilian to kiss them. "You are a true and faithful friend. But you acted from self-interest too, dear Maximilian. You knew that if you’d shown a different attitude, everything would have ended between us. You promised me the affection of a brother. I have no other friend in this world. My father neglects and forgets me, my stepmother harasses and persecutes me, and I’m left only with the companionship of a paralyzed, speechless old man whose withered hand can no longer squeeze mine, who can speak to me only with his eyes, though his heart still holds the warmest love for his poor granddaughter. Oh, what a bitter fate, to serve as either victim or enemy to everyone stronger than me, while my only friend and supporter is a living corpse! Truly, Maximilian, I’m very miserable, and if you love me, it must be out of pity." "Valentine," the young man replied, deeply moved, "I won’t say you’re all I love in the world, because I dearly treasure my sister and brother-in-law. But my affection for them is calm and peaceful, nothing like what I feel for you. When I think of you, my heart races, my blood burns, I can hardly breathe. But I solemnly promise to restrain all this passion until you need me to act on your behalf. Mr. Franz isn’t expected home for a year, I’m told. In that time, many favorable chances might come our way. Let’s hope for the best, hope is such a sweet comfort. Meanwhile, Valentine, while accusing me of selfishness, think about what you’ve been to me: the beautiful but cold image of a marble statue. What promise of future reward have you made me for all my submission and obedience? None. What have you granted me? Barely anything. You speak of Mr. Franz d’Epinay, your intended husband, and you recoil from the idea of being his wife. But tell me, Valentine, isn’t there any other sorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul. My life and every drop of blood belongs to your service. You know my existence depends on yours, if I lost you, I wouldn’t survive the hour. Yet you speak calmly about the prospect of becoming another man’s wife! Oh, Valentine, if I were in your place, and I knew I was worshipped and adored with such love as mine, a hundred times I would have reached my hand through these iron bars and said, ’Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and believe that, living or dead, I am yours, yours only, and forever!’"