CHAPTER 19

Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet Have a Happy Reunion

When Mademoiselle Objet got home, the little house was filled with a wonderful fragrance. Having contemplated the meaning of his work—that it was meaningless—having picked up the photographs of Mademoiselle Objet he’d dropped off, and feeling relieved by the possibility of Mademoiselle Objet’s employment, Monsieur Sorbonne had gone to the gourmand’s food store, collected a fine selection of items, and was now preparing a sumptuous dinner.

So happy was Mademoiselle Objet about her afternoon’s work that although it was late when she finally walked in the door, she changed from her work clothes and put on the seal-gray wool dress she had worn the first night they went out to dinner.

Monsieur Sorbonne lit candles and put on some music, piano gavottes, on their Victrola instrument, and Mademoiselle Objet very graciously served up the items of food which he had so cleverly prepared.

“You seem different, calm, almost peaceful tonight,” said Monsieur Sorbonne as she sat down across the table from him. “It’s nice to see you this way.”

“It’s quite simple, really,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “I’m beginning to understand. When I have things to arrange, I’m happy. My hands stop itching and I can keep my temper in place. And if I don’t, well, you know what can happen. It’s strange, but spending the day with this Madame Métier and her mess seemed to change things. I feel different.”

This was all most odd, thought Monsieur Sorbonne. Mademoiselle Objet seemed to be in some other state, not quite herself, so quiet and composed she was.

“But did you do any work?” he asked her finally. “And did you get a job?”

“Yes, we did do some work, but I don’t really know if I did get a job,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “The time just went by, and then it was past eight o’clock. And then I came home. All I know is that now I feel peaceful. I had a nice time.”

“I’m happy,” said Monsieur Sorbonne, ‘that something has changed.”

“So am I,” said Mademoiselle Objet. “I wish this could be a real job, that just once, for a long time, like a profession, I could have things to arrange. Consistency. That’s what I need. A routine. Day after day with the same things the same.” She got up then, and cleared the dishes away.

When they had finished their special desserts—strawberry crêpes Suzette and Viennese coffee—he opened the white floss envelope containing the photographs. There, inside it, as if she had never once crabbed or screamed or squawked or scared him half to death, captured in all her loveliness, was Mademoiselle Objet.

Her pretty hands were touching her face; she was smiling ever so slightly. She looked peaceful, and although they were black-and-white photographs, there was a distinctly bluish cast to the crystal heart locket, which hung around her neck.