The Virgin Blue. Tracy Chevalier

use the bigger dictionary at the library.

      Jean-Paul was talking to another man at his desk as I walked in. There was no change in his demeanour or expression but I noted with a satisfaction that surprised me that he glanced at me as I passed. I took the dictionary volumes to a desk and sat with my back to him, annoyed with myself for being so aware of him.

      The library dictionary was more helpful but there were still words I couldn’t find, and more words I simply couldn’t read. After spending fifteen minutes on one paragraph, I sat back, dazed and frustrated. It was then that I saw Jean-Paul, leaning against the wall to my left and watching me with an amused expression that made me want to slap him. I jumped up and thrust the letter at him, muttering, ‘Here, you do it!’

      He took the sheets, gave them a cursory glance and nodded. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘See you Wednesday at the café.’

      On Wednesday morning he was sitting at the same table, in the same chair, but it was cloudy this time and there were no bubbling clay deposits in the river. I sat opposite him rather than in the adjacent seat, so that the river was at my back and we had to look at each other. Beyond him I could see into the empty café: the waiter, reading a newspaper, glanced up as I sat down and abandoned his paper when I nodded.

      Neither of us said anything while we waited for our coffee. I was too tired to make small talk; it was the strategic time of the month and the dream had woken me three nights running. I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep and had lain hour after hour listening to Rick’s even breathing. I’d been resorting to cat naps in the afternoons, but they made me feel ill and disoriented. For the first time I’d begun to understand the look I had seen on the faces of new mothers I’d worked with: the bewildered, shattered expression of someone robbed of sleep.

      After the coffee came Jean-Paul placed Jacob Tournier’s letter on the table. ‘There are some Swiss expressions in it,’ he said, ‘which maybe you would not understand. And the handwriting was difficult, though I have read worse.’ He handed me a neatly written page of translation,

      My dear cousin,

      What a pleasure to receive your letter! I remember well your father from his brief visit to Moutier long ago and am happy to make the acquaintance of his daughter.

      I am sorry for the delay in my reply to your questions, but they required that I should look through my grandfather’s old notes about the Tourniers. It was he who had a great interest in the family, you see, and he undertook many researches. In fact he made a family tree – it is difficult to read or reproduce it for you in this letter, so you will have to visit us and see it.

      Nonetheless I can give you some facts. The first mention of a Tournier in Moutier was of Etienne Tournier, on a military list in 1576. Then there was a baptism registered in 1590 of another Etienne Tournier, the son of Jean Tournier and Marthe Rougemont. There are few records left from that time, but later there are many mentions of Tourniers – the family tree is abundant from the eighteenth century to the present.

      The Tourniers have had many occupations: tailor, innkeeper, watchmaker, schoolteacher. A Jean Tournier was even elected mayor in the early nineteenth century.

      You ask about French origins. My grandfather sometimes said that the family originally came from the Cévennes. I do not know from where he 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, in 1572 and 1685, first after the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew, then with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. You can read about them at the library. I won’t do all your work for you,’ he added tauntingly.

      I ignored his gibe. I was beginning to like the idea of exploring a part of France where I might have ancestors. ‘So you think it’s worth me going to the archives at Mende?’ I asked, foolishly optimistic.

      He blew smoke straight up into the air. ‘No.’

      My