free and willing participant in sexual liaisons of all descriptions, had not once been approached by her master. Still, she said she had heard noise and once had even seen the Abbe in someone's arms. There was also talk, unsubstantiated to be sure, of the Abbe's violent nature during his secret nocturnal endeavors. Snatches of tavern talk provided little additional intelligence. The postman who delivered the mansion-house mail—apparatus of experimental philosophy, parcels sent from distant ports, and journals published by the better continental academies of science—told Claude what was obvious: "He reads . . . books!" Many of the farmers in outlying parts of the commune cited the Abbe's compensatory reflexes. Countering that reputation of generosity, Father Gamot noted that the church donation tray was no heavier since the Abbe's arrival.
The only substantive information came from the gamekeeper of the mansion-house property, a limber-legged fellow who could pick off a pigeon hawk or good piece of gossip at a hundred yards. The gamekeeper told Claude, while cradling an ancient musket and making his rounds, that the Abbe was the only son of a family of only sons, and the inheritor of vast merchant wealth. Shipping. He had, in his youth, entered the Society of Jesus, and left years later in scandal. Dismissed. When he came into his inheritance—smallpox, if the gamekeeper remembered correctly, was the cause of premature and profitable primogeniture— the Abbe decided to purchase the small estate of Tournay, possession of which carried the title of Count. Out of spite for the Church, he used the appellation of Abbe. The gamekeeper ended his account to shoot at a low-flying mallard.
Claude's thoughts were interrupted by what he first took for gunfire but soon realized was the Abbe sneezing. The nasal charge sent a pair of spectacles flying. They would have smashed on the ground had they not been tied to their owner by a leather thong, the attentive contrivance of Marie-Louise, the mansion-house cook. As the Abbe reached down, he knocked over the note-roll he had been filling. It uncurled across the dusty floor. When he brought the distant end under control, the Abbe found it was held by Claude.
"Your apprentice, sir," Claude said nervously.
The Abbe shook his head. "No formal titles will separate us, no papers will be signed. You are apprenticed to no one but yourself. That is not to say you will not learn. Or that I will not teach. You will, and I will." The Abbe said he would reject outright anything that reminded him of his own Ignatian training. (The gamekeeper's information was correct.) This meant there would be little of the unquestioning obedience that had plagued the aged cleric early in the century, when he was Claude's age. "Do you understand?"
Claude did not understand. He was perplexed, and that perplexity appeared on his face.
"See yourself, if you wish, as one of those favored first viziers who populate the Oriental anecdotes I know you so enjoy. See yourself as a young man devoted to his Caliph, content to live with secrets both shared and hidden."
The analogy pleased them both. For Claude, it placed him in a world of enchantments and of genii. He saw the gates of Constantinople and the minarets of Baghdad. For the Abbe, the citations of a heretical faith allowed for yet another private victory in his war with the Church.
Claude was emboldened by the kindness. "Would the Caliph grant his vizier a wish?"
The Abbe frowned. "No. The laws of Muhammedan anecdote prohibit granting a single wish. Surely, your father told you."
Claude looked down. He had expected too much.
But then the Abbe said, "You may, however, have three."
They laughed, a register apart, before Claude formulated his first query. He asked the Abbe to explain his decision to settle in Tour nay.
"Why I came here is easy enough to answer. One of my correspondents mentioned many years back the availability of this land, noting its
The only substantive information came from the gamekeeper of the mansion-house property, a limber-legged fellow who could pick off a pigeon hawk or good piece of gossip at a hundred yards. The gamekeeper told Claude, while cradling an ancient musket and making his rounds, that the Abbe was the only son of a family of only sons, and the inheritor of vast merchant wealth. Shipping. He had, in his youth, entered the Society of Jesus, and left years later in scandal. Dismissed. When he came into his inheritance—smallpox, if the gamekeeper remembered correctly, was the cause of premature and profitable primogeniture— the Abbe decided to purchase the small estate of Tournay, possession of which carried the title of Count. Out of spite for the Church, he used the appellation of Abbe. The gamekeeper ended his account to shoot at a low-flying mallard.
Claude's thoughts were interrupted by what he first took for gunfire but soon realized was the Abbe sneezing. The nasal charge sent a pair of spectacles flying. They would have smashed on the ground had they not been tied to their owner by a leather thong, the attentive contrivance of Marie-Louise, the mansion-house cook. As the Abbe reached down, he knocked over the note-roll he had been filling. It uncurled across the dusty floor. When he brought the distant end under control, the Abbe found it was held by Claude.
"Your apprentice, sir," Claude said nervously.
The Abbe shook his head. "No formal titles will separate us, no papers will be signed. You are apprenticed to no one but yourself. That is not to say you will not learn. Or that I will not teach. You will, and I will." The Abbe said he would reject outright anything that reminded him of his own Ignatian training. (The gamekeeper's information was correct.) This meant there would be little of the unquestioning obedience that had plagued the aged cleric early in the century, when he was Claude's age. "Do you understand?"
Claude did not understand. He was perplexed, and that perplexity appeared on his face.
"See yourself, if you wish, as one of those favored first viziers who populate the Oriental anecdotes I know you so enjoy. See yourself as a young man devoted to his Caliph, content to live with secrets both shared and hidden."
The analogy pleased them both. For Claude, it placed him in a world of enchantments and of genii. He saw the gates of Constantinople and the minarets of Baghdad. For the Abbe, the citations of a heretical faith allowed for yet another private victory in his war with the Church.
Claude was emboldened by the kindness. "Would the Caliph grant his vizier a wish?"
The Abbe frowned. "No. The laws of Muhammedan anecdote prohibit granting a single wish. Surely, your father told you."
Claude looked down. He had expected too much.
But then the Abbe said, "You may, however, have three."
They laughed, a register apart, before Claude formulated his first query. He asked the Abbe to explain his decision to settle in Tour nay.
"Why I came here is easy enough to answer. One of my correspondents mentioned many years back the availability of this land, noting its
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