Like many of his countrymen, the sere old peasant Pierre Talabard nursed a deep and lifelong distrust of all that exists beyond the confines of his 37-acre farm in the Allier, 200 miles south of Paris. He worked the rich soil on which he was born 63 years ago, hid what little money he possessed under his mattress, and left the farm only rarely, to stand in silence while his ruddy-cheeked wife Louise haggled with some neighbor over the sale of a family calf. Pierre's distrust of the outside world was in no way softened when, three years ago, his half-witted...
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