A Place of Greater Safety

by Hilary Mantel

  In Paris he would receive a modest clerk’s allowance from the barrister in whose chambers he would study; later, he would need money to establish himself in practice. His stepfather’s inventions had eaten into the family money; his new weaving loom was especially disaster-prone. Bemused by the clatter and the creak of the dancing shuttles, they stood in the barn and stared at his little machine, waiting for the thread to break again. There was a bit of money from M. Danton, dead these eighteen years, which had been set aside for when his son grew up. “You’ll need it for the inventions,” Georges-Jacques said. “I’ll feel happier, really, to think I’m making a fresh start.”

  That summer he visited the family. A pushy and energetic boy who went to Paris would never come back—except for visits, perhaps, as a distant and successful man. So it was proper to make these calls, to leave out no one, no distant cousin or great-uncle’s widow. In their cool, very similar farmhouses he had to stretch out his legs and outline to them what he wanted in life, to submit his plans to their good understanding. He spent long afternoons in the parlors of these widows and maiden aunts, with old ladies nodding in the attenuated sunlight, while the dust swirled purplish and haloed their bent heads. He was never at a loss for something to say to them; he was not that sort of person. But with each visit he felt that he was traveling, further and further away.

  Then there was just one visit left: Marie-Cécile in her convent. He followed the straight back of the Mistress of Novices down a corridor of deathly quiet; he felt absurdly large, too much a man, doomed to apologize for himself. Nuns passed in a swish of dark garments, their eyes on the ground, their hands hidden in their sleeves. He had not wanted his sister to come here. I’d rather be dead, he thought, than be a woman.

  The nun halted, gestured him through a door. “It is an inconvenience,” she said, “that our parlor is so far within the building. We will have one built near the gate, when we get the funds.”

  “I thought your house was rich, Sister.”

  “Then you are misinformed.” She sniffed. “Some of our postulants bring dowries that are barely sufficient to buy the cloth for their habits.”

  Marie-Cécile was seated behind a grille. He could not touch or kiss her. She looked pale; either that, or the harsh white of the novice’s veil did not suit her. Her blue eyes were small and steady, very like his own.

  They talked, found themselves shy and constrained. He told her the family news, explained his plans. “Will you come back,” she asked, “for my clothing ceremony, for when I take my final vows?”

  “Yes,” he said, lying. “If I can.”

  “Paris is a very big place. Won’t you be lonely?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She looked at him earnestly. “What do you want out of life?”

  “To get on in it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I suppose it means I want to get a position, to have money, to make people respect me. I’m sorry, I see no point in being mealy-mouthed about it. I just want to be somebody.”

  “Everybody’s somebody. In God’s sight.”

  “This life has turned you pious.”

  They laughed. Then: “Have you any thought for the salvation of your soul, in the plans you’ve made?”

  “Why should I have to think about my soul, when I’ve a great lazy sister a nun, with nothing to do but pray for me all day?” He looked up. “What about you, are you—you know—settled?”

  She sighed. “Think of the economics of it, Georges-Jacques. It costs money to marry. There are too many girls in our family. I think the others volunteered me, in a way. But now that I’m here—yes, I’m happy. It really does have its consolations, though I wouldn’t expect you to acknowledge them. I don’t think you, Georges-Jacques, were born for the calmer walks of life.”

  He knew that there were farmers in the district who would have taken her for the meager dowry she had brought to the convent, and who would have been glad of a wife of robust health and cheerful character. It would not have been impossible to find a man who would work hard and treat her decently, and give her some children. He thought all women ought to have children.

  “Could you still get out?” he asked. “If I made money I could look after you, we could find you a husband or you could do without, I’d take care of you.”

  She held up a hand. “I said, didn’t I—I’m happy. I’m content.”

  “It saddens me,” he said gently, “to see that the color has gone from your cheeks.”

  She looked away. “Better go, before you make me sad. I often think, you know, of all the days we had in the fields. Well, that is over now. God keep you.”

  “And God keep you.”

  You rely on it, he thought; I shan’t.

  CHAPTER 3

  At Maître Vinot’s

  Sir Francis Burdett, British Ambassador, on Paris: “It is the most ill-contrived, ill-built, dirty stinking town that can possibly be imagined; as for the inhabitants, they are ten times more nasty than the inhabitants of Edinburgh.”

  Georges-Jacques came off the coach at the Cour des Messageries. The journey had been unexpectedly lively. There was a girl on board, Françoise-Julie; Françoise-Julie Duhauttoir, from Troyes. They hadn’t met before—he’d have recalled it—but he knew something of her; she was the kind of girl who made his sisters purse their lips. Naturally: she was good-looking, she was lively, she had money, no parents and spent six months of the year in Paris. On the road she amused him with imitations of her aunts: “Youth-doesn’t-last-forever, a-good-reputation-is-money-in-the-bank, don’t-you-think-it’s-time-you-settled-down-in-Troyes-where-all-your-relatives-are-and-found-yourself-a-husband-before-you-fall-apart?” As if, Françoise-Julie said, there were going to be some sudden shortage of men.

  He couldn’t see there ever would be, for a girl like her. She flirted with him as if he were just anybody; she didn’t seem to mind about the scar. She was like someone who has been gagged for months, let out of a gaol. Words tumbled out of her, as she tried to explain the city, tell him about her life, tell him about her friends. When the coach came to a halt she did not wait for him to help her down; she jumped.

  The noise hit him at once. Two of the men who had come to see to the horses began to quarrel. That was the first thing he heard, a vicious stream of obscenity in the hard accent of the capital.

  Her bags around her feet, Françoise-Julie stood and clung to his arm. She laughed, with sheer delight at being back. “What I like,” she said, “is that it’s always changing. They’re always tearing something down and building something else.”

  She had scrawled her address on a sheet of paper, tucked it into his pocket. “Can’t I help you?” he said. “See you get to your apartment all right?”

  “Look, you take care of yourself,” she said. “I live here, I’ll be fine.” She spun away, gave some directions about her luggage, disbursed some coins. “Now, you know where you’re going, don’t you? I’ll expect to see you within a week. If you don’t turn up I’ll come hunting for you.” She picked up her smallest bag; quite suddenly, she lunged at him, stretched up, planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she whirled away into the crowd.

  He had brought only one valise, heavy with books. He hoisted it up, then put it down again while he fished in his pocket for the piece of paper in his stepfather’s handwriting:

  The Black Horse

  rue Geoffroy l’Asnier,

  parish of Saint Gervais

  All about him, church bells had begun to ring. He swore to himself. How many bells were there in this city, and how in the name of God was he to distinguish the bell of Saint-Gervais and its parish? He screwed the paper up and dropped it.

  Half the passersby were lost. You could tramp forever in the alleyways and back courts; there were streets with no names, there were building sites strewn with rubble, there were people’s fireplaces standing in the streets. Old men coughed and spat, women hitched up skirts trailing yellow mud, children ran naked in
it as if they were country children. It was like Troyes, and very unlike it. In his pocket he had a letter of introduction to an Île Saint-Louis attorney, Vinot by name. He would find somewhere to spend the night. Tomorrow, he would present himself.

  A hawker, selling cures for toothache, collected a crowd that talked back to him. “Liar!” a woman screamed. “Get them pulled out, that’s the only way.” Before he walked away, he saw her wild, mad, urban eyes.

  Maître Vinot was a rotund man, plump-pawed and pugnacious. He affected to be boisterous, like an elderly schoolboy.

  “Well,” he said, “we can but give you a try. We … can … but … give … you … a try.”

  I can give it a try, Georges-Jacques thought.

  “One thing’s for sure, your handwriting is atrocious. What do they teach you nowadays? I hope your Latin’s up to scratch.”

  “Maître Vinot,” Danton said, “I’ve clerked for two years, do you think I’ve come here to copy letters?”

  Maitre Vinot stared at him.

  “My Latin’s fine,” he said. “My Greek’s fine too. I also speak English fluently, and enough Italian to get by. If that interests you.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  “I taught myself.”

  “How extremely enterprising. Mind you, if we have any trouble with foreigners we get an interpreter in.” He looked Danton over. “Like to travel, would you?”

  “Yes, I would, if I got the chance. I’d like to go to England.”

  “Admire the English, do you? Admire their institutions?”

  “A parliament’s what we need, don’t you think? I mean a properly representative one, not ruined by corruption like theirs. Oh, and a separation of the legislative and executive arms. They fall down there.”

  “Now listen to me,” Maitre Vinot said. “I shall say to you one word about all this, and I hope I shall not need to repeat it. I won’t interfere with your opinions—though I suppose you think they’re unique? Why,” he said, spluttering slightly, “they’re the commonest thing, my coachman has those opinions. I don’t run around after my clerks inquiring after their morals and shepherding them off to Mass; but this city is no safe place. There are all kinds of books circulating without the censor’s stamp, and in some of the coffeehouses—the smart ones too—the gossip is near to treasonable. I don’t ask you to do the impossible, I don’t ask you to keep your mind off all that—but I do ask you to take care who you mix with. I won’t have sedition—not on my premises. Don’t ever consider that you speak in private, or in confidence, because for all you know somebody may be drawing you on, ready to report you to the authorities. Oh yes,” he said, nodding to show that he had the measure of a doughty opponent, “oh yes, you learn a thing or two in our trade. Young men will have to learn to watch their tongues.”

  “Very well, Maitre Vinot,” Georges-Jacques said meekly.

  A man put his head around the door. “Maître Perrin was asking,” he says, “are you taking on Jean-Nicolas’s son, or what?”

  “Oh God,” Maitre Vinot groaned, “have you seen Jean-Nicolas’s son? I mean, have you had the pleasure of conversation with him?”

  “No,” the man said, “I just thought, old friend’s boy, you know. They say he’s very bright too.”

  “Do they? That’s not all they say. No, I’m taking on this cool customer here, this young fellow from Troyes. He reveals himself to be a loudmouthed seditionary already, but what is that compared to the perils of a working day with the young Desmoulins?”

  “Not to worry. Perrin wants him anyway.”

  “That I can readily imagine. Didn’t Jean-Nicolas ever hear the gossip? No, he was always obtuse. That’s not my problem, let Perrin get on with it. Live and let live, I always say,” Maitre Vinot told Danton. “Maître Perrin’s an old colleague of mine, very sound on revenue law—they say he’s a sodomite, but is that my business?”

  “A private vice,” Danton said.

  “Just so.” He looked up at Danton. “Made my points, have I?”

  “Yes, Maitre Vinot, I should say you’ve driven them well into my skull.”

  “Good. Now look, there’s no point in having you in the office if no one can read your handwriting, so you’d better start from the other end of the business—‘cover the courts,’ as we say. You’ll do a daily check on each case in which the office has an interest—you’ll get around that way, King’s Bench, Chancery division, Châtelet. Interested in ecclesiastical work? We don’t handle it, but we’ll farm you out to someone who does. My advice to you,” he paused, “don’t be in too much of a hurry. Build slowly; anybody who works steadily can have a modest success, steadiness is all it takes. You need the right contacts, of course, and that’s what my office will give you. Try to work out for yourself a Life Plan. There’s plenty of work in your part of the country. Five years from now, you’ll be nicely on your way.”

  “I’d like to make a career in Paris.”

  Maître Vinot smiled. “That’s what all the young men say. Oh well, get yourself out tomorrow, and have a look at it.”

  They shook hands, rather formally, like Englishmen after all. Georges-Jacques clattered downstairs and out into the street. He kept thinking about Françoise-]ulie. Every few minutes she flitted into his head. He had her address, the rue de la Tixanderie, wherever that was. Third floor, she’d said, it’s not grand but it’s mine. He wondered if she’d go to bed with him. It seemed quite likely. Presumably things that were impossible in Troyes were perfectly possible here.

  All day, and far into the night, traffic rumbled through narrow and insufficient streets. Carriages flattened him against walls. The escutcheons and achievements of their owners glowed in coarse heraldic tints; velvet-nosed horses set their feet daintily into the city filth. Inside, their owners leaned back with distant eyes. On the bridges and at the intersections coaches and drays and vegetable carts jostled and locked their wheels. Footmen in livery hung from the backs of carriages to exchange insults with coalmen and out-of-town bakers. The problems raised by accidents were solved rapidly, in cash, according to the accepted tariff for arms, legs, and fatalities, and under the indifferent eyes of the police.

  On the Pont-Neuf the public letter writers had their booths, and traders set out their goods on the ground and on ramshackle stalls. He sorted through some baskets of books, secondhand: a sentimental romance, some Ariosto, a crisp and unread book published in Edinburgh, The Chains of Slavery by Jean-Paul Marat. He bought half a dozen for two sous each. Dogs ran in packs, scavenging around the market.

  Every second person he met, it seemed, was a builder’s laborer, covered in plaster dust. The city was tearing itself up by the roots. In some districts they were leveling whole streets and starting again. Small crowds gathered to watch the more tricky and spectacular operations. The laborers were seasonal workers, and poor. There was a bonus if they finished ahead of schedule, and so they worked at a dangerous pace, the air heavy with their curses and the sweat rolling down their scrawny backs. What would Maitre Vinot say? “Build slowly.”

  There was a busker, a man with a strained, once-powerful baritone. He had a hideously destroyed face, one empty eye socket overgrown with livid scar tissue. He had a placard that read HERO OF THE AMERICAN LIBERATION. He sang songs about the court; they described the Queen indulging in vices which no one had discovered in Arcis-sur-Aube. In the Luxembourg Gardens a beautiful blonde woman looked him up and down and dismissed him from her mind.

  He went to Saint-Antoine. He stood below the Bastille, looked up at its eight towers. He had expected walls like sea cliffs. The highest must be—what? Seventy-five, eighty feet?

  “The walls are eight feet thick, you know,” a passerby said to him.

  “I expected it to be bigger.”

  “Big enough,” the man said sourly. “You wouldn’t like to be in there, would you? Men have gone in there and never come out.”

  “You a local?”

  “Oh yes,” the man said. “We know all
about it. There are cells under the ground, running with water, alive with rats.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about the rats.”

  “And then the cells up under the roof—that’s no joke either. Boil in summer, freeze in winter. Still, that’s only the unlucky ones. Some get treated quite decent, depends who you are. They have beds with proper bed-curtains and they can take their own cat in to keep the vermin down.”

  “What do they get to eat?”

  “Varies, I suppose. Again, it’s according to who you are. You do see the odd side of beef going in. Neighbor of mine a few years back, he swears he saw them taking in a billiard table. It’s like anything else in life, I suppose,” the man said. “Winners and losers, that’s all about it.”

  Georges-Jacques looks up, and his eye is offended; it is impregnable, there is no doubt. These people go about their lives and work—brewing by the look of it, and upholstery—and they live under its walls, and they see it every day, and finally they stop seeing it, it’s there and not there. What really matters isn’t the height of the towers, it’s the pictures in your head: the victims gone mad with solitude, the flagstones slippery with blood, the children birthed on straw. You can’t have your whole inner world rearranged by a man you meet in the street. Is nothing sacred? Stained from the dye works, the river ran yellow, ran blue.

  And when evening came the civil servants hurried home; the jewelers of the Place Dauphine came clank, clank with their keys to lock away their diamonds for the night. No homeward cattle, no dusk over the fields; shrug away the sentimentality. In the rue Saint-Jacques a confraternity of shoemakers settled in for a night’s hard drinking. In a third-floor apartment in the rue de la Tixanderie, a young woman let in her new lover and removed her clothes. On the Île Saint-Louis, in an empty office, Maitre Desmoulins’s son faced, dry-mouthed, the heavy charm of his new employer. Milliners who worked fifteen hours in a bad light rubbed their red-rimmed eyes and prayed for their families in the country. Bolts were drawn; lamps were lit. Actors painted their faces for the performance.