“Des fleurs!” cry the night florists. “Des fleurs!” They are starving, and they roam Paris on long feet, rangy as dogs.

“I need some flowers!” whispers a lonely man on a streetcorner, wearing a sad suit. The night florists converge, then, on dovecotes and flagpoles. The two strongest eye each other: they must duel for his francs.

Dusenne draws a lily, for warding. Verine draws azaleas, for fragile passion. They leap, and slice the moonlight; their blood is black as silk. When Verine stands triumphant, the lonely man has fled.

It’s really hard to sell anything when you’re a night florist.