“The Little Girl at Argenteuil”
By: Marie Low

Midday; the blue sky was adorned with thick white puffs of clouds. Warm sunlight embraced every leaf and twig on the broad trees. In the shadow of a proud manor stood rows of primly potted flowers; their fragrance hung in the thick summer air.
In the cool shadow of the manor was also a girl, barely four years of age. She wore her best Sunday dress— although it was Tuesday— the one with the big black bow in the back. Her short, thin reddish hair was covered with a wide-brimmed sunhat, leaving the nape of her small neck fragile and exposed. A toy wooden hoop lay abandoned a short distance away. She was standing before the roses.
“Attends ici, Evelyn,” she had been instructed, “Les visiteurs importants vont arriver bientôt, compris? Ne salis pas ta belle robe. Et ne touche pas les roses. Compris, Evelyn?”
Evelyn knew better than to misbehave, so she stood at a respectable distance from the roses, her young innocent eyes wide with adoration. While she stood in the shade, the roses were basking in the sunlight; their rich, pink colour seemed to irradiate from within. Each petal exuded an intoxicating sense of grandeur and lust. Their splendor was enriched by the vibrancy of the surrounding hues of polished leaves and rich soil. Evelyn felt a tug in her chest which compelled her to step forward into the sunlight.
Now she was a part of it. The strange, heavenly place beckoned her. Her clumsy steps brought her face to face with the red roses. She stood on her toes and leaned close to a blossom. The delicate aroma escaping the depths of each flower was sweet and appealing. The layered petals were luscious and full. Evelyn was entranced by the hypnotic arrangement of the petals. With her nose nearly touching the flower, she could see the faint veins traced in each petal. There seemed to be a slight golden-pink iridescence in the silky smoothness.
Oh, the roses! How she longed to hold their beauty with her own hands! She felt a burning desire to claim one for her own, to take the red rose and say “mine.” She felt a shallow anger at the thought of strangers intruding in the glory of the roses. Her fingers itched to reach up and pluck the flower from the bush… yet she knew, and had been instructed, that she must not touch the roses.
But why not? What could be so wrong with grasping the delicate floral holiness?
Tears tickled her eyes, her skin tingled, and her blood began to pulse with a powerful sense of wanting. Knowing she was alone in the garden, Evelyn’s trembling fingers clumsily grasped a stem.
She gasped. A single drop of crimson innocence fell on a white rose below. It left a trail of red over the petal’s veins as it slid into the mysterious shadowed space in the center.
She sucked the blood from her forefinger.
Undaunted, she tried again, reaching directly for the source of wonder. Soft pink hands cupped the head of the rose, and with an unexpected forceful tug, the flower detached. The rosebush rustled as the stem swayed.
The rose! Her scarlet rose. Evelyn’s crimson rose. She stood in the sunlight, admiring it. It was satisfying to hold, a perfect size for her small hands. The round shape fit in her palms like a puzzle piece. Overcome with joy, she buried her button nose into the petals and inhaled deeply. A sigh of contentment. Elation, the dreamy cloud, settled over her. At once her chest feel light and heavy.
“Evelyn!”
She jumped, shaken from her trance by the familiar sharp voice. It came from within the manor.
“Evelyn, viens à l’intérieur! Dépêche-toi!”
Icy guilt washed over Evelyn, burning at her flushed cheeks. The rose! It felt too fragile in her frenzied fingers.
Shaking with fear and excitement, she glanced around. Ran to a nearby bush. Crawled on her hands and knees under the tangled branches. Placed the rose ceremoniously on her lap. Began digging into the ground with her fingernails, intending to bury the evidence.
The soil was moist and cool, and was easily overturned. Evelyn placed her rose in the hole under the bush. She couldn’t bring herself to refill the hole and cover her rose with dirt. Perhaps, by leaving her treasure uncovered, she could return to it later. With a last lingering look, Evelyn backed out of the bush and ran to her discarded wooden hoop.
“Evelyn, nos visiteurs sont arrivés! Viens ici, tu dois les rencontrer—Zut alors! Regardes-toi!”
In the shadow of the manor, holding a wooden hoop, stood a little girl, barely four years of age, in a filthy dress with a big black bow in the back, with soiled knees and mud under her nails, and a tiny gash from a thorn on her stubby forefinger.















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lauren ell

January 21, 2011 at 9:55 PM PST

This is incredible! I'd love to read something you've written recently, if you've got the time?

bpearson

January 20, 2011 at 4:27 PM PST

Hahaha, I love it <3 a good characterization of childish whims and innocence. That and I love French ;D

Notalent

January 7, 2011 at 11:44 PM PST

I like your writing style. The story seems to end abruptly...I guess I wanted to read more. Can you continue? Is there more? Thanks.