had this information.
It pleases me that you have interest in the family, and I hope you and your husband will visit us sometime soon. A new member of the Tournier family is always welcome to Moutier.
Yours etc.
Jacob Tournier
I looked up. ‘Where's Cévennes?’ I asked.
Jean-Paul gestured over my shoulder. ‘Northeast of here.
It's an area in the mountains north of Montpellier, west of the Rhône. Around the Tarn and to the south.’
I fastened on to the one familiar bit of geography. ‘This Tarn?’ I pointed with my chin at the river below, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd thought Cévennes was a town.
‘Yes. It's a very different river further east, closer to its source. Much smaller, quicker.’
‘And where's the Rhône?’
He flicked me a look, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen, and quickly sketched the outline of France on a napkin. The shape reminded me of a cow's head: the east and west points the ears, the top point the tuft of hair between the ears, the border with Spain the square muzzle. He drew dots for Paris, Toulouse, Lyons, Marseilles, Montpellier, squiggly vertical and horizontal lines for the Rhône and the Tarn. As an afterthought he added a dot next to the Tarn and to the right of Toulouse to mark Lisle-sur-Tarn. Then he circled part of the cow's left cheek just above the Riviera. ‘That's the Cévennes.’
‘You mean they were from a place nearby?’
Jean-Paul blew out his lips. ‘From here to the Cévennes is at least 200 kilometres. You think that is near?’
‘It is to an American,’ I replied defensively, well aware that I'd recently chided my father for making the same assumption. ‘Some Americans will drive 100 miles to a party. But look, it's an amazing coincidence that in your big country – ’ I gestured at the cow's head – ‘my ancestors came from a place pretty close to where I live now.’
‘An amazing coincidence,’ Jean-Paul repeated in a way that made me wish I'd left off the adjective.
‘Maybe it wouldn't be so hard then to find out more about them, since it's nearby.’ I was remembering Madame Sentier saying that to know about my French ancestors would make me feel more at home. ‘I could just go there and –’ I stopped. What would I do there exactly?
‘You know your cousin said it is a family story that they came from there. So it is not certain information. Not concrete.’ He sat back, shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it in one fluid movement. ‘Besides, you already know this information about your Swiss ancestors, and there exists a family tree. They have traced the family back to 1576, more information than most people know about their families. That is enough, no?’
‘But it would be fun to dig around. Do some research. I could look up records or something.’
He looked amused. ‘What kind of records, Ella Tournier?’
‘Well, birth records. Death records. Marriages. That kind of thing.’
‘And where are you finding these records?’
I flung out my hands. ‘I don't know. That's your job. You're the librarian!’
‘OK.’ Appealing to his vocation seemed to settle him; he squared himself in his chair. ‘You could start with the archives at Mende, which is the capital of Lozère, one of the départements of the Cévennes. But I think you do not understand this word “research” you are so easy to use. There are not so many records from the sixteenth century. They did not keep records then the way the government began to do after the Revolution. There were church records, yes, but many were destroyed during the religious wars. And especially the Huguenot records were not kept securely. So it is all very unusual that you find something about the Tourniers if you go to Mende.’
‘Wait a minute. How do you know they were, uh, Huguenots?’
‘Most of the French who went to Switzerland then were Huguenots looking for a safe place, or who wanted to be close to Calvin at Geneva. There were two main waves of migration,
It pleases me that you have interest in the family, and I hope you and your husband will visit us sometime soon. A new member of the Tournier family is always welcome to Moutier.
Yours etc.
Jacob Tournier
I looked up. ‘Where's Cévennes?’ I asked.
Jean-Paul gestured over my shoulder. ‘Northeast of here.
It's an area in the mountains north of Montpellier, west of the Rhône. Around the Tarn and to the south.’
I fastened on to the one familiar bit of geography. ‘This Tarn?’ I pointed with my chin at the river below, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd thought Cévennes was a town.
‘Yes. It's a very different river further east, closer to its source. Much smaller, quicker.’
‘And where's the Rhône?’
He flicked me a look, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen, and quickly sketched the outline of France on a napkin. The shape reminded me of a cow's head: the east and west points the ears, the top point the tuft of hair between the ears, the border with Spain the square muzzle. He drew dots for Paris, Toulouse, Lyons, Marseilles, Montpellier, squiggly vertical and horizontal lines for the Rhône and the Tarn. As an afterthought he added a dot next to the Tarn and to the right of Toulouse to mark Lisle-sur-Tarn. Then he circled part of the cow's left cheek just above the Riviera. ‘That's the Cévennes.’
‘You mean they were from a place nearby?’
Jean-Paul blew out his lips. ‘From here to the Cévennes is at least 200 kilometres. You think that is near?’
‘It is to an American,’ I replied defensively, well aware that I'd recently chided my father for making the same assumption. ‘Some Americans will drive 100 miles to a party. But look, it's an amazing coincidence that in your big country – ’ I gestured at the cow's head – ‘my ancestors came from a place pretty close to where I live now.’
‘An amazing coincidence,’ Jean-Paul repeated in a way that made me wish I'd left off the adjective.
‘Maybe it wouldn't be so hard then to find out more about them, since it's nearby.’ I was remembering Madame Sentier saying that to know about my French ancestors would make me feel more at home. ‘I could just go there and –’ I stopped. What would I do there exactly?
‘You know your cousin said it is a family story that they came from there. So it is not certain information. Not concrete.’ He sat back, shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it in one fluid movement. ‘Besides, you already know this information about your Swiss ancestors, and there exists a family tree. They have traced the family back to 1576, more information than most people know about their families. That is enough, no?’
‘But it would be fun to dig around. Do some research. I could look up records or something.’
He looked amused. ‘What kind of records, Ella Tournier?’
‘Well, birth records. Death records. Marriages. That kind of thing.’
‘And where are you finding these records?’
I flung out my hands. ‘I don't know. That's your job. You're the librarian!’
‘OK.’ Appealing to his vocation seemed to settle him; he squared himself in his chair. ‘You could start with the archives at Mende, which is the capital of Lozère, one of the départements of the Cévennes. But I think you do not understand this word “research” you are so easy to use. There are not so many records from the sixteenth century. They did not keep records then the way the government began to do after the Revolution. There were church records, yes, but many were destroyed during the religious wars. And especially the Huguenot records were not kept securely. So it is all very unusual that you find something about the Tourniers if you go to Mende.’
‘Wait a minute. How do you know they were, uh, Huguenots?’
‘Most of the French who went to Switzerland then were Huguenots looking for a safe place, or who wanted to be close to Calvin at Geneva. There were two main waves of migration,
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