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The tiny watercolor that hung at the level of a nine-year-old’s eye. Stephen never talked about it, mostly because, he’d once told Armand, there wasn’t much to say. It wasn’t exactly a masterpiece, like the others. Yet there was something about this particular work.

After a day out in the great city, they’d return exhausted, and while Stephen made chocolat chaud in the cramped kitchen, young Armand would drift over to the paintings.

Inevitably, Stephen would find the boy standing in front of the small watercolor, looking into the frame as though it was a window. At the tranquil village in the valley.

“That’s worthless,” Stephen had said.

But worthless or not, it was young Armand’s favorite. He was drawn back to it on every visit. He knew in his heart that anything that offered such peace had great value.

And he suspected his godfather thought so, too. Otherwise he’d never have hung it with all the other masterpieces.

At the age of nine, just months after both Armand’s parents had been killed in a car accident, Stephen had brought the boy to Paris for the first time. They’d walked together around the city. Not talking, but letting the silent little boy think his thoughts.

Eventually, Armand had lifted his head and begun to notice his surroundings. The wide boulevards, the bridges. Notre-Dame, the Tour Eiffel, the Seine. The brasseries, with Parisians sitting at round marble-topped tables on the sidewalks, drinking espresso or beer or wine.

At each corner, Stephen took his hand. Holding it firmly. Until they were safe on the other side.

And slowly young Armand realized he was safe, would always be safe, with this man. And that he would get to the other side.

And slowly, slowly, he’d returned to life.

Here. In Paris.

Then one morning his godfather had said, “Today, garçon, we’re going to my very favorite place in all of Paris. And then we’ll have an ice cream at the Hôtel Lutetia.”

They’d strolled up boulevard Raspail and turned left onto rue de Varenne. Past the shops and patisseries. Armand lingered at the windows, looking at the mille-feuilles and madeleines and pains aux raisins.

They stopped at one, and Stephen bought them each a tartelette au citron, giving Armand the small paper bag to carry.

And then they were there. At an opening in a wall.

After paying the admission, they went in.

Armand, his mind on the treat in the bag, barely registered his surroundings. This felt like duty, before the reward.

He opened the bag and looked in.

Stephen put his hand on the boy’s arm and said, “Patience. Patience. With patience comes choice, and with choice comes power.”

The words meant nothing to the hungry little boy, except to say that he couldn’t yet have the pastry.

Reluctantly, Armand closed the bag, then looked around.

“What do you think?” Stephen asked when he saw his godson’s eyes widening.

He could read the boy’s mind. It wasn’t, in all honesty, all that difficult.

Who’d have thought such a place existed anywhere, never mind tucked, essentially hidden, behind tall walls, in the middle of the city? It was a world unto itself. A magic garden.

Had he been alone, Armand would have walked right by, mind on the uneaten pastry, never discovering what lay inside. Never seeing the beautiful château with its tall windows and sweeping terrace.

While not at all jaded, the child was by now used to magnificent buildings in Paris. The city was thick with them. What astonished him were the grounds.

The manicured lawns, the trees shaped like cones. The fountains.

But unlike the huge jardin du Luxembourg, created to impress, this garden was almost intimate.

And then there were the statues. Come upon here and there among the greenery. As though they’d been waiting patiently. For them.