**All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.
My feminine, girly instincts shown through as I stopped in front of a lovely little fleuriste a few blocks away from the Bastille. I just happened to have on a floral printed dress with a floral printed scarf around my neck as I peered over to sniff all of the flowers. Rotating positions of smelling and photographing, I may as well have been wearing a sign reading: "Je ne peux pas attendre le printemps!" but my wardrobe and actions scream this.
There was an older gentleman leaving the fleuriste with a bundle of pink tulips. He wore a tweed hat, carried a worned leather briefcase, and had a sharp looking pair of black-rimmed glasses. Dapper fellow he was. I conjured up a story in my mind that he was on his way home for lunch, where his wife was waiting for him with a homemade bowl of soupe a l'oignon. He wasn't planning on buying flowers that day, but he could not resist because the flowers smelled so wonderful and fresh on this particular day. She would be happily surprised. They would eat the soup. And have tarte tatin for dessert.
Yes, I am certain something similar occurred.
**(excerpt taken from The Flowers by Robert Louis Stevenson)