The gardener's hands, calloused from years of tending to the estate's roses, trace the delicate petals of 'La Mandragore,' his mind drifting to the carnal secrets he's privy to. Madame de Montespan's moans, entwined with the rustling leaves, echo in his memory as he imagines her writhing beneath him, her pleasure as intoxicating as the mandrake's scent. His cock hardens, pressing against his breeches, as he envisions himself as the object of her desire, her nails digging into his back as he pounds into her, their forbidden union as natural as the roses blooming under his care.