The Garden of Versailles

["When the Roses of Versailles Bloom on My Balcony"] At six in the morning, as sunlight gilded the wrought-iron railings, I crouched on the balcony watering my newly planted 'Pierre de Ronsard' roses with a cup of freshly ground Colombian coffee in hand. "Tell me, why do these flowers always bloom more vibrantly than those in the Gardens of Versailles?" I asked my husband, who was trimming grapevines while wearing the linen hat we bought in Paris last year, its brim pulled low. "Maybe because our balcony understands romance better than Louis XIV's fountain pools," he replied. The moss I gathered by the Seine last week now creeps along the edges of my celadon planters like a miniature forest. The lavender seeds from Provence, brought back two years ago, have finally burst into full bloom this season—so fragrant that even delivery guys tiptoe to catch a whiff. My pride and joy is the clematis, its blue-purple flowers climbing the antique trellis we brought back from Fontainebleau Palace, now reaching the second-floor bay window where magpies gather for their morning meetings. "Mom, I'm off to school!" My daughter dashed past the balcony, plucking a freshly bloomed 'Juliet' rose to tuck behind her ear. "Hey, don’t pick that!" I feigned annoyance. "That one’s for next month’s community gardening contest!" She stuck out her tongue. "But teacher said Versailles roses were meant for princesses anyway~" Truth be told, I secretly mixed soil from the Gardens of Versailles into my compost—with permission, of course. Years ago during a Paris trip, I pretended to sketch by a garden corner and slipped a handful of that black earth into an envelope when the guard wasn’t looking. Blended with leaf mold back home, it worked like magic: peonies grew fist-sized, hydrangeas bowed under their weight, and even the most finicky camellias bloomed from winter through spring. "Dinner plans?" My husband wiped his pruning shears. "How about steak with your homemade rose wine?" I rolled my eyes. "Quite the connoisseur, aren’t you?" Then I headed to the kitchen for the proofed dough—yesterday’s recipe from Madeleine’s bakery, kneaded with dried rose petals, now filling the house with honeyed floral warmth as it baked. As sunset stretched our shadows long, I rocked on the balcony chair flipping through *The Horticultural Secrets of Versailles*. A breeze scattered rose petals across the pages. The book mentioned Louis XIV’s greenhouses to ensure year-round blooms, while I simply check my phone for seasonal planting guides—proof that modern luxury is weaving entire gardens into everyday life. (As I finished writing, the neighbor’s gasp floated through the window: "Goodness! Your balcony rivals Versailles!" I waved it off—"Oh, it’s nothing special"—while mentally noting tomorrow’s errand: more irises for that signature Versailles blue.)