The Professor: Avignon 



botanist of Mont Ventoux as well as the bot- 

 any; for Fabre is one who throws himself 

 wholly into all that he does, and his history 

 can no more be divorced from that of his 

 plants than from that of his beloved insects. 



It is four o'clock in the morning. At the head 

 of the caravan walks Triboulet, with his Mule and 

 his Ass: Triboulet, the Nestor of the Ventoux 

 guides. My botanical colleagues inspect the vege- 

 tation on either side of the road by the cold light 

 of the dawn ; the others talk. I follow the party 

 with a barometer slung from my shoulder and a 

 note-book and pencil in my hand. 



My barometer, intended for taking the altitude 

 of the principal botanical halts, soon becomes a 

 pretext for attacks on the gourd with the rum. No 

 sooner is a noteworthy plant observed than some- 

 body cries: 



"Quick, let's look at the barometer!" 



And we all crowd around the gourd, the scien- 

 tific instrument coming later. The coolness of 

 the morning and our walk make us appreciate these 

 references to the barometer so thoroughly that the 

 level of the stimulant falls even more swiftly than 

 that of the mercury. In the interests of the imme- 

 diate future I must consult Torricelli's tube a little 

 less often. 



As the temperature grows too cold for them, first 

 the oak and the ilex disappear by degrees; then 

 the vine and the almond-tree; and next the mul- 

 147 



