It was a very lovely evening. It was not hot, but pleasantly warm, with a slight breeze to alleviate any sense of pressing, overpowering heat. The sun was setting, coloring the clouds pastel shades of orange, yellow, and pink. Had Toussaint been younger, she would enjoy this weather.

As it were, she could care less. It was nice not to be overheated, but that was the extent on her feelings for the evening.

Currently, she was seated in Mademoiselle's parlor, mending a hole in Mademoiselle's brown gardening dress. Mademoiselle was clearly taking pleasure in the evening. She was perched quite contentedly on the window cushion, and was gazing out at her garden.

Toussaint tied a knot in the thread and yawned. She was tired from running around doing errands all day. Not that she minded them. Oh, no, not indeed. She loved working for saintly Monsieur and his daughter, Mademoiselle. She was extremely happy with her job. She was merely tired.

"M- mademoiselle, I'll r- retire f- for the e-evening unless th- th- there's s-s-something y- you w-w-wish m-me to d-do," Toussaint stammered, getting up out of her chair.

"I shall be fine, Toussaint," Mademoiselle murmured genteelly. "I'm sorry to have kept you up this late." She turned from her window with a gracious smile. "You should not have to worry about me. I'm sure I can manage any challenge that rears its head. I think I shall stay up a bit more and enjoy the evening."

Toussaint nodded, and with the dress draped over one arm, hobbled back to her room. She had arthritis in her left knee, but she never complained about it, though it pained her terribly.

All right, perhaps that was not so true. She did complain about it, but not all too much.

Toussaint shuffled into her room. It was still light enough for her to change into her nightdress, so she set to it, and summarily snuggled into her bed.

She was asleep very quickly, and dreamt of a talking flower that insisted that she eat a porcelain tea cup with a little mustard over it. It was a very odd dream, and Toussaint woke up. She felt thirsty.

So she hauled herself out of bed, draped a shawl about her stooped shoulders and shuffled off to the kitchen for water. Once having fulfilled her mission, Toussaint lit a candle (it was very dark now, save for the full moon and the stars) and placed the cup on its shelf.

Her left knee twinged a bit when she moved it, so Toussaint hobbled around the kitchen for a while, grumbling about her health. It was then when she saw something odd. As she hobbled past the kitchen door in her ragged slippers, she saw Mademoiselle coming down the stairs.

Now, you might ask, how is that odd?

It was odd not because of what she was doing, but what she was wearing.

She was dressed in her best blue silk dress, the one that matched the color of her eyes perfectly. The dress clung to her slender figure becomingly, and lace decorated the ends of her sleeves, the neckline of her dress, and the hem of it. She was apparently (according to slight clacking sounds she made as she moved) wearing her high- heeled dress boots. Toussaint squinted at Mademoiselle and discovered that she was wearing a pearl necklace, and had twisted her curly brown hair into a style that flattered the shape of her face.

All right, definitely odd. It was the middle of the night, and Mademoiselle was dressed up to go to a dinner party. Toussaint had left her candle on the kitchen table and hobbled over to get it, formulating a vague plan to go to Mademoiselle and inquire if she was quite out of her head.

Toussaint paused upon reaching the candle, as she heard a door open and then click shut. Even odder. What was Mademoiselle doing?

Toussaint grabbed her candle and hobbled over to the window of the kitchen. Mademoiselle was strolling in the garden, gazing up at the stars. All right then.

So Mademoiselle wanted to go stargazing in a blue silk dress. Definitely odd, but not worth troubling oneself over. Mademoiselle was an angel, and if she was feeling somewhat fanciful, she should be allowed to act upon her various whims. After all, she spent so much time going around with her saintly father, helping the poor. She should be allowed to indulge herself every once in while as long as she didn't hurt anyone, including herself.

Toussaint shrugged. It really wasn't her place to comment on the whimsies of her employers, both of whom were saints. She turned to leave when there was a sudden, loud sound, like someone scraping a piece of rusty metal onto another piece of rusty metal.

Rusty metal... Toussaint's thoughts flew to the wrought iron gate around the house. Burglars! Trying to get in and kill them all in their sleep! And she and Mademoiselle were so very defenseless with Monsieur out of town on business!

Toussaint hobbled as quickly to the kitchen door as she could, where she locked every lock on the door. Then she remembered: Mademoiselle is outside stargazing in her best dress.

Toussaint began hurriedly unbolting the door, which took quite a long time. Then she thought back to one or two novels she had read in her free time. In them, when burglars were about to attack someone, the hero would cautiously sneak up on them, and whack the burglar in the head with something heavy. Toussaint figured that her brass candle- holder would be heavy enough, so she blew out her candle and creaked open the door very gingerly so that she could not be heard.

Outside, a man in a threadbare black coat was setting a bar back into its proper place in the gate.

'Ah,' Toussaint thought, creaking the door open another millimeter. 'Here is the cold-blooded murderer who wanted to kill us whilst we slept!'

She opened the door an inch more and squinted into the moon-lit night. Though it was probably wrong of her, she wanted to see who was going to try and kill them. Perhaps it would be someone famous, who had posters declaring who he was and his various crimes all over the market place.

The man turned so that his face could be seen, and Toussaint was mildly surprised. She had never seen a cold-blooded killer who looked less like a cold-blooded killer. He was a slender youth, and extremely handsome in a shy, reserved way.

He had curly black hair that was currently being tousled by the wind, as he held his hat in his hand. His eyes were large and dark, and his smile was genteel and unassuming.

Toussaint was beginning to be quite perplexed. Mademoiselle, who, if she was feeling whimsical, was usually one to get up early and twirl about in the dewdrops at dawn, was, instead, out late, stargazing in her best dress, and now a cold-blooded murderer who had abandoned his hat on a nearby bush had broken into the garden. Well!

She glanced suspiciously around the garden. In her novels, the robbers always worked in groups. Her gaze landed on Mademoiselle, who was not, as Toussaint expected, paralyzed with fear. It seemed quite the opposite.

Mademoiselle was smoothing out her skirt and attempting to observe the murderer from underneath her eyelashes. She was smiling very slightly: a small enigmatical smile that was somehow sweet yet unconsciously flirtatious.

'Well!' Toussaint thought, now thoroughly shocked and perplexed. 'If this isn't the strangest thing I've seen in years!'

Then Mademoiselle did the unexpected. Blushing rosily, she smiled and held out her hand to the cold-blooded murderer. Then she whispered, in a sort of barely suppressed elation, "Marius!"

Then, to Toussaint's utter shock and amazement, the cold-blooded murderer gently took Mademoiselle's hand and raised it respectfully to his lips. It was slightly reminiscent of the courtly behavior popular when Toussaint had been young.

Toussaint rubbed a fist into her eye and blinked. Perhaps she was just seeing things. No, she was not. When she looked again, the cold- blooded murderer was smiling somewhat dazedly at Mademoiselle, as if amazed to be where he was. Then he whispered, ever so gently and softly, "Cosette."

Well! This was certainly new. Toussaint did not know quite what to make of it. So she just warily regarded them both, making sure the Monsieur the cold-blooded Murderer did not try anything offensive.

"I'm glad to see you again, Marius," Mademoiselle whispered, eyes reflecting the star- spangled sky overhead.

Marius the Apparent Cold-Blooded Murderer smiled again, softly and quite handsomely. Toussaint was tempted to creak the door open a half- inch more, but refrained.

"I'm glad to see you, Cosette." He led her to the stone bench underneath the cherry tree, and Toussaint grumbled to herself quietly. There was no telling how long they would sit there, and Toussaint would feel duty- bound to chaperone. Toussaint resigned herself to her fate and clutched the candlestick, just in case some other cold-blooded murderer would try and leap over the garden wall to kill them all in their sleep. She began musing that cold-blooded murderers couldn't exactly kill Mademoiselle and herself in their sleep when they weren't sleeping, but then the cold-blooded murderer who was holding Mademoiselle's hand began to speak again.

"Cosette... I had the most amazing dream last night. I dreamt an angel came to me, and talked to me in the most handsome garden outside of Eden. The angel was more charming and graceful... and more utterly beautiful than any other person I've ever seen. I wandered about in a daze all day, just thinking about her smile. I decided to go back to the garden tonight, in the hopes that the angel would grace me with her smile again... and I was amazed to find that she was there." He shyly raised Mademoiselle's hand to his lips again. "How wonderful it is to converse with an angel! Especially when she is sitting next to me."

Mademoiselle blushed prettily. Toussaint wondered if she should reconsider her opinion of the cold-blooded murderer. He couldn't be all bad if he could improvise such beautiful poetry on the spot. Of course, he could just be distracting Mademoiselle whilst a gang of other cold- blooded murderers broke into the house to try and kill Toussaint where she slept.

"Marius," Mademoiselle murmured gently, cheeks still flushed and eyes sparkling. "I think I fall more in love with you every second that passes." She looked away shyly, afraid of being too forward, no doubt, but glanced up at Marius the cold-blooded murderer from underneath her eyelashes. "Thank you." Then, gathering her courage, Mademoiselle playfully remarked, "Come, now. I believe you said something about my garden? Shall you expand upon your subject?" Mademoiselle managed to look up and smile sweetly, and somewhat mischievously.

The cold-blooded murderer who Toussaint was beginning to suspect was not, in fact, a cold-blooded murderer smiled and laughed softly. "What can I say of an Eden that is sinless?"

"That you enjoy it," Mademoiselle remarked in a teasing tone, tentatively pushing a curly strand of Marius's hair out of his face.

Marius's eyes softened, with a look of intense, pure, innocent love that surprised Toussaint. "I do, Cosette. I enjoy every minute I spend in this garden, and I may truthfully say that the happiest moments of my life take place here."

Mademoiselle's smile was dewy and almost annoyingly sweet. Toussaint wondered if Mademoiselle would get a tooth-ache from smiling like that.

"And do you enjoy the garden, my dearest Cosette?"

Mademoiselle laughed, a light sound like a bird trilling. "Of course Marius. I particularly enjoy sitting under this cherry tree."

"May I inquire as to the reason?" The cold-blooded murderer who Toussaint was beginning to suspect was just an ordinary student smiles, his lips quirking up in loving amusement.

Mademoiselle placed her hands on her hips in mock annoyance. "I would assume that that would be easy for you to guess, my dear Marius."

"I'm afraid my wits have flown like storm clouds from the sun at the brilliance of your smile," Marius remarked softly, almost inaudibly, with a very gentle, shy smile.

Cosette's facetious exasperation faded into a soft sort of tenderness. "I love to sit under this cherry tree in the mornings, because I can imagine you right beside me. It's quite wonderful to sit thereā€ with the sunlight dappling the ground through the leaves on the trees, and to remember how, just hours ago, you were right beside me, and our souls danced among the stars." Mademoiselle paused, perhaps uncertain of being forward again. Well! If Toussaint were in Mademoiselle's position, she would have walloped the cold-blooded murderer on the head and shouted for the police. If Mademoiselle was bold enough to meet with that Marius fellow in the garden, it was Toussaint's opinion that she shouldn't be afraid of being any bolder, say, in the manner of hollering for help. But as it were, Mademoiselle was an angel and probably would have fed any cold-blooded robber who would've attempted to kill them in their sleep in order to steal Mademoiselle's few bits of jewelry.

Mademoiselle and Marius stared into one another's eyes quietly, until Mademoiselle blushed again, as she had been doing frequently throughout the course of the night. Toussaint reflected that blushing so much could not be too healthy for poor Mademoiselle. She was sure to suffer from all that blood rising to her head and would probably faint.

Toussaint's left knee began to twinge again, but she ignored it. Someone had to make sure that the cold-blooded murderer did not try to stab Mademoiselle and steal her necklace. That, and Toussaint was beginning to wonder if that Marius fellow would recite any more poetry. It was quite nice, after all.

"Also, I love cherries," Mademoiselle murmured, her blush subsiding somewhat. "When I used to study at the convent, Papa was the gardener. During our free hour, my friends and I would go run about in the gardens, and Papa would lift us up so we could reach the top branches of the cherry trees and pluck the ripest ones. Then we'd hang the cherries over our ears. When our free hour was up, we'd hide the cherries in our pockets and under our pillows in our rooms and eat them at night." Mademoiselle stood and walked in front of the cherry tree. By standing on the tips of her toes and leaning one hand against the tree trunk, Mademoiselle was able to harvest a handful of cherries. The cold-blooded murderer looked rather bemused. Toussaint, herself, felt rather curious. Where was Mademoiselle going with this?

Mademoiselle turned to Marius with a smile and outstretched hands full of cherries. "Here you are Marius! Take them and put them in your pocket, so tomorrow, when you find a handful of fruit in your waistcoat, you'll remember me, and the blessings God has rained upon us. The fruits of the spirit, perhaps, though I do indeed know that that particular passage was supposed to be a metaphor."

Marius smiled and accepted the fruit as Cosette poured it into his open palms. "Thank you, my dearest Cosette. But I don't need the fruit to remind me of you. All I need is to see the sun, and I recall of the graciousness of God for allowing me to bask in your smile."

Mademoiselle smiled softly. Toussaint's knee began to twinge even more. The suffering she had to go through with her arthritis! Not that she'd complain mind you.

All right, maybe she would complain, but there were more pressing matters at hand! Like the cold-blooded murderer who was stowing cherries in his waistcoat pocket.

Once he had completed that, he extended his hands to Mademoiselle, who placed her own hands in his. "Dearest Cosette... I believe I love you more every second that passes. Indeed, words themselves are not adequate when I try and string them together to try and express what I feel. They don't even begin to describe how much I love you, or how beautiful you look. They are a paltry substitute for real emotion and are so often vainly used." Marius paused a moment to smile rather shyly up at Cosette. "But sometimes, the simplest of them can begin to say what we mean: Je t'aime." Marius then kissed Mademoiselle's hands very gently.

Cosette smiled at him adoringly, knelt, and pressed his hands to her cheek. "Je t'aime, mon coeur."

Well! It was sweet, to be sure, almost to the point of being nauseatingly so, but Toussaint's arthritis was really horrible now. So Toussaint softly closed the door, locked it, and hobbled over to the kitchen table to set her candlestick down. Well! She'd just have to trust Mademoiselle's good judgment, and this poetic cold-blooded murderer.

How often Toussaint unwittingly chaperoned Marius and Mademoiselle's whispered meetings was a hard thing to estimate. After all, the arthritis in her knee was something awful- kept her up almost every night! Though she never complained (much) about it!

And perhaps the sight of the two young ones, their eyes shining with love, and their chaste and poetic words of endearment did Toussaint's heart good. It might have even helped her arthritis, a bit.

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