In years to come, one could visit the trellis at the back of the garden at Montrose—and in other gardens of the world—and find again that dream of peace and beauty, surrounded by the riotous sweet scent of wine-dark Meredith Elyots.
Back at Villa Mirabeau, we dressed for the baroness’s party and turned the radiantly beautiful blooms from M. Meilland’s posies into corsages to adorn our wrists and gowns and pinned one on Matthias as a buttonhole. M. Meilland had sent us away with gorgeously scented posies of roses from his nursery, including the delicious Gloire de Dijon. They were the most wonderful gift. They seemed to lighten the weight of my mother’s diamonds.
When we arrived that evening at the Villa Ephressi de Rothschild, our hostess and her guests all exclaimed and admired the wond
