CHAPTER 7

Mademoiselle Objet Has An Awakening

Penitent the next morning, Mademoiselle Objet arrived on time for work. She had been set straight, as it were, by Monsieur Sorbonne, and she was determined to squelch whatever outbursts might try to rise up within her. He was right—things had, and must—change, and her need to control everything, to always have things be her way, that also needed to change.

Monsieur L’Ange had already left. He had risen early, and kissing Madame Métier on the cheeks and lips, had quietly stolen out of the room. Having slept a strange sorrowful sleep, Madame Métier had awakened surpringingly refreshed. It was as if through the strange tableau of her dreams she had been given to see everything—Monsieur L’Ange and the many times she had already lost him. And seeing that she had lived through the loss and that he was still here—was here once again—she felt strangely at peace.

So affected though was she by what she had dreamt, that now everything and nothing mattered. She no longer cared about what Mademoiselle Objet would think, how she might react or even if, in a fit, she would leave. In her body, now, she felt a strange new energy. Inspired, though just beneath the surface, sad, she moved through her room with a studied peacefulness, picking things up, quietly making the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Mademoiselle Objet a few minutes later when, dressed in blue silk, her hair nicely combed, her face suffused with radiance, she entered the workroom. “I’m very sorry about not coming to work yesterday. I know I’m difficult. I know that every day everything’s different—and I know all that’s the worst for you—someone like you who likes everything perfect—it’s just that …”

But Mademoiselle Objet interrupted her. “It’s just that you have your own circumstances, and something wonderful’s happened for you. I already know! That’s why you’re acting so strange. And it’s none of my business. I know that, too.”

Hearing this, Madame Métier was amazed. “Yes, yes, actually it has,” she said. She wondered whether, in detail, she should explain, but when she looked at Mademoiselle Objet, she saw in her eyes a quite unfamiliar composure, and she knew that explaining was unnecessary. The actual facts were unimportant, because clearly, Mademoiselle Objet had changed.

Madame Métier was amazed. For a minute she didn’t know whether or not to believe what she had just seen, but when she looked once again she could see it was true. Indeed, it was as if every cell in Mademoiselle Objet’s body had taken on a slightly different coloration. Her entire being now gave off an air of acceptance—of willingness and openness and thoughtfulness and calm.

Taking in the miracle of Mademoiselle Objet’s quite obvious transformation, Madame Métier was quietly overjoyed. There were moments in life—and this she knew was one of them—of infinite grace, when suddenly, for no apparent reason, a conflict is resolved, when, from the back room or the basement of another person’s consciousness, a new awareness arises, so that all the pains of the past can be laid down, and a whole new chapter can begin.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Mademoiselle Objet, confirming Madame Métier’s perception.”I’m sorry I’ve always been so impatient.”

“It’s true,” said Madame Métier. “You haven’t always been patient with me, but you have always been most unbelievably helpful; and for that I am infinitely grateful.”

“Well, I’m glad that at least I could help, even though I’m so willful and selfish.”

Madame Métier was stunned, and was about to disagree, but Mademoiselle Objet barreled on, “And impatient and controlling and self-centered and judgmental and mean! That’s what Monsieur Sorbonne told me last night. I want things my way and no other way. I’m spoiled!”

“You have been,” said Madame Métier quietly, “but you’ve changed. Today, just now, in saying these things, you have gone past your old self. Last night you listened with your heart and recognized the truth, and today, already, the light of compassion has started to come in.” She smiled at Mademoiselle Objet, and embraced her, and for a moment Mademoiselle Objet could feel in her brain a tingling molecular effervescence, the derangement, it seemed, of the last of her discontents.

“I am sorry,” she said, a few minutes later, joining Madame Métier at the workroom table, “truly sorry for the way I’ve been, but now that I’ve changed,”—she laughed a little, then became suddenly almost parental—“I have a few things to say. You do need to work. I know you don’t want to. I know that you’re tired. I know you just want to be a free spirit, but you can’t be. You have a great work—a great métier,”—and here she laughed a little again—“and you have no idea how many people are going to be transformed by it. You need to listen! You need to hear me once and for all! You think it’s your cremes, all this calla lily and saxifrage nonsense that heals everyone. But it isn’t. It’s your presence, your essence. It’s you!”