... He would probably have written something like this:

« In spring the crabapple exploded into burgundy bloom and the air buzzed with its bees. The dusky sweet smell filled the whole garden. The willow tree turned chartreuse, then yellow with fuzzy lime catkins and even louder bees, until its structure seemed to vibrate. The old, fragile lilac tree at the front door held pale pink, loose, graceful flower clusters, with old-fashioned dark purple violets at its feet. I would crouch with my face near their leaves, picking their long stems one by one to make a posy, oblivious of the romance of it, of the ritual repeated in all countries where violets grow. I loved them - their full fat petals, their fragile white hearts, their scent. That early season was one of fragrance: the cascading bunches of wisteria over the heavy wooden doors in the high white wall; the simple, single white hyacinths growing outside the walls under the ornamental peach trees that lined the street. I wanted to squeeze them to make perfume, and my mother told me that in France there were fields of flowers for just that purpose. When I am big, I will make perfume in France, I said. I could imagine nothing better. »

 [Written some time ago by Marie, who incidentally is now reading Marcel Pagnol.]

« Je venais de surprendre mon père en flagrant délit d’humanité. Je sentis que je l’en aimais davantage. »

Marcel Pagnol - La gloire de mon père