propitious climate—ha!—and its clear and even light—ha! again. I was informed that the previous Count of Tournay was held in great respect by the residents, that he had made his motto 'Born to Serve.' I later learned that though this was indeed his motto, it referred to the service not of his people but of a white cloth tennis ball." The Abbe swung an imaginary racquet. "My correspondent informed me that the property had the advantage of proximity to the Republic's book dealers while still being far enough away to avoid the burden of Consistory law. He described the location, if 1 recall correctly, as a 'rural, sheltered, unobscured retreat.' On reflection, I can say that he was wrong on all counts but rurality. But, then, as optical theory informs us, reflection can distort. 1 moved here because I was tired of traveling. After years of missionary life in the obedience of the Society—not Mr. Calvin's, of course, but the now disbanded Society that beats the name of the eatth-bound membet of the Holy Ttinity—I wanted to ttavel no mote. Hete I found I didn't have to pack my panniets to entet new worlds."
The Abbe sneezed again, though this time with diminished fotce. He wiped his nose on an alteady stiffened sleeve of lace and said, "Where was I?"
"New wotlds," Claude said.
"Ah yes, terra nova, terra incognita." He temoved himself ftom the enclosed chait and took Claude to a latge window cut at the side of the tennis coutt. "Ftom this vantage point, I can commune with othet expetimentets: yout mothet, Old Antoine, and, beyond the valley, investigatots of even gteatet fame, those ex-ttaotdinaty obsetvets who otdeted simply while lesset men simply otdered. Patacelsus. Holbein. Bauhin. Whethet handling alembics ot canvas ot specimen bottles, they changed all that they touched." As the Abbe said this, he pointed a ctooked finger at the ptesumed tesidences of the alchemist, the paintet, and the botanist he held in high tegatd. The ctooked finget moved.
"Over thete in Bern, Hallet toiled piously, adding to the encyclopedias, the tteatise on anatomy, the dozen ot so physiological wotks, the books of botany and bibliogtaphy, the poetry, the historical novels—he wrote only four of those, I think, none too accomplished. And all the while he managed a saltworks and other municipal responsibilities. How did he do it? Maybe it is the snow that imposes a certain patience. Winter demands that Switzerland's inhabitants collect and ctaft and test. What else can they do?"
The Abbe took Claude to a bookstand and tapped the wotk that tested on it. "Bauhin's Pinax. It took a Switzer to publish a methodical concordance of all known plants. Outdated, but still invaluable. I will have you take a trip to Basel to see the collection. Marvelous amassment of roots. Maybe yout mothet should go, too." He ended his tambling. "Does that answet your first question?"
It did, so Claude asked his second: "Where do you come from?"
The Abbe teplied with surptising frankness. "Let's see, that would depend on where we begin. When I was your age, in the predictable manner of time and place, I was put at the mercy of the Church. I studied with the Fathers of the Oratory. They were simple and secular, prone to popular preaching. That is where, I think, I developed an appreciation for laborers and their crafts. Unfortunately, the philosophy of the Fathers did not sit well with the philosophy of my father, who was a merchant and a man who had no interest, or interests, in the sufferings of the poor. He soon sent me to the Jesuits to get down to the serious business of education.
"I was fitted into the course of studies governed by the Ratio Studiorum, and, much to everyone's surprise, I showed real competence. It was decided I would enter the Church. After enduring the constraints of the novitiate, I found my first passion." The Abbe stopped here. Then he said, "That passion being mechanics. I pursued it intently until the Provincial sent me on apostolic
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