During World War II, there was a very modest, humble Mother Superior who lived in a convent outside Rouen, France. Being a pious, good-hearted woman, she took it upon herself to stand up to the Nazis by hiding Jews from the Gestapo, feeding the poor and aiding the French Resistance whenever she could.
After the War, she was granted an audience with the Pope where she was to receive a medal in recognition of her heroic efforts. Her fellow Sisters--immensely proud of her accomplishment--took up a collection for her journey and urged her to update her travel wardrobe.
"After all," said Sister Marie-Claire, "you're going to meet His Holiness! You can't do that dressed like some poor church mouse!"
Residents of the surrounding community--especially those whose lives she had saved--were equally proud and equally vested in seeing that she received proper recognition. They pressed decreasingly modest sums upon her for the trip, urged her to throw out her travel wardrobe and insisted she indulge in a full-blown makeover.
"After all," said her dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme, "you'll be representing your entire community! You can't do that dressed like a little brown mouse!"
Soon the day came for her to take the train to Paris and, from there, to fly to Rome. She set out in the morning shortly after Matins wearing her traditional habit and sensible shoes. She carried a battered, borrowed valise in one hand and a spare rosary in the other. As she traveled down the winding, cobbled street, her fellow Sisters trailed behind singing quiet hymns of praise and scores of local villagers marched with farewell bouquets of spring flowers. Outwardly, she frowned over their attentions and frequently asked them to return to their daily lives. Inwardly, she nursed a tiny nugget of pride.
The train's arrival at Paris Nord--a riot of sound, color, steam and bustle--was incredibly daunting for the Mother Superior and she was highly tempted to simply turn around and return to her quiet little cell in Rouen. Instead, she gritted her teeth, adjusted her coif and bandeau and struck out for the nearest taxi stand.
She soon discovered that Monsieur Arena-Homme had prepared the way for her when she noticed a liveried driver standing next to a very respectable Rolls Royce Phantom and holding a crisp white placard on which her name appeared in black, block letters.
"Pardon Monsieur," she inquired, "Am I to understand you are waiting for me?"
"Mais oui, Madame!" he riposted. "For you are the little Mother Superior, and I am your faithful servant!"
A small smile crept across her face followed by a warm flush of pride and recognition.
"This is Monsieur Arena-Homme's doing, is it not?"
"Oui, Madame," he said as he took her valise and gently placed it in the Phantom's generous trunk. "He has given me complete instructions for your stay and arranged for you to have everything you wish while you are here in Paris."
She laughed out loud and softly demurred. "Well, Monsieur, that remains to be seen. For now, would you be so good as to take me to the guesthouse in Sacre Coeur? I need to obtain lodging."
"But Madame," he protested. "Did you not know? Monsieur Arena-Homme has purchased a suite for you at the Hotel Ritz!"
The little Mother Superior stood there aghast; but while she was speechless over her friend's generosity she was secretly thrilled to be in a position to enjoy the finest accommodations Paris had to offer. Her eyes drank in the sites as her driver negotiated the busy streets and delivered her to the Place Vendome where he gently escorted her faltering steps through the breathtaking lobby and into the waiting presence of the hotel concierge who, to her immense and private delight, had been expecting her.
"Ah, Madame!" he cried, smoothing his pencil thin mustaches, "You have arrived at last!"
"Au revoir pour le moment, Madame" her driver intoned while bowing and politely kissing her hand, "I shall entrust you to the capable ministrations of Monsieur Gabrielle. If you have need of me, tell him and I will attend to you at once."
Monsieur Gabrielle clapped his hands and servants suddenly appeared to press a glass of champagne upon her and take her tired valise from her hand. Someone offered her a piquant amuse bouche, and she soon found herself ensconced in no less than the hotel's finest room: the Imperial Suite.
"Oh," she enthused, "It's just all so beautiful. And here I am, just a tired little country mouse. I'm afraid all this opulence is not for me."
"But Madame," insisted Gabrielle. "It is! You are famous throughout all France for your heroic deeds! Allow us to repay you in part for all your sacrifices. Shall I order more champagne and arrange for your dinner?"
"Well..." she said, "All right, but do you think I might freshen up a bit first?"
"Ah but Madame," he said, guiding her to a nearby sofa the size of her convent cell, "You must first meet with Monsieur Dior for your fitting!"
"What!!??" the little nun shouted, spilling her champagne on the lush Aubusson rug. "Monsieur CHRISTIAN Dior??"
"Mais oui!" said Gabrielle. "Your dear friend Monsieur Arena-Homme has arranged for the great Dior to transform you for your audience with Monsieur Le Pope. After all, you stand for all of France! We can't have you doing so feeling like, how you say, une souris fatigués!"
Her fitting with the legendary Dior was like a dream overflowing in taffeta, lace and organza. Dior, for his part, went above and beyond the confines of his dress duties and engineered an entire makeover that included facial, makeup, hairstyling, manicure and pedicure. He even gave her a crash course in charm, poise and etiquette. She caught a brief glimpse of herself in a mirror and was outwardly alarmed--though inwardly pleased--when she spied a slightly familiar heart-shaped face peering back at her with curiosity.
"Oh," she sighed. "This is too much."
"But Madame," they said, "This is what you deserve!"
In the end she graciously accepted Dior's ensemble and turned her attention--and direction--to her impending flight to Rome. Once on the ground in Italy, she was met by one of the Pope's staff and whisked through the ancient streets to the storied doors of the Sistine Chapel where a receiving line of dignitaries, nobles and other illuminaries waited to greet a glittering, richly dressed Pope.
As His Holiness walked down the receiving line the little Mother Superior fussed quietly over her outfit and focused on not falling off her unaccustomed high heels. She adjusted her trendy cloche, smoothed her flowing silk gown and tugged on her matching gloves. Soon, it was her turn to be presented.
"Your Holiness," said the Pope's attaché, "May I present Mother Superior Marie-Souris Pauvres of the Convent of St. Anne de Rouen."
Mother Superior curtsied deeply and beautifully (she'd practiced with Gabrielle for hours the night before) and rose with a flourish and an impish smile.
The Pope cocked an eyebrow at her, scanned her from the top of her fashionable head down to her delicately clad toes and looked at her questioningly.
"Dior," she whispered conspiratorially and giggled.
The Pope reared back, grinning ear to ear and opened his pristine white cloak to reveal his opulent, richly made robes. He spun around twice, looked her full in the face and crowed with a flourish, "Balenciaga!"
