A Place of Greater Safety. Hilary Mantel

quiet; he felt absurdly large, too much a man, doomed to apologise 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 parlour 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 – happy?’

      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 settled. 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 meagre 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 colour 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.

III. At Maître Vinot’s

       (1780)

      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-for-ever, 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 passers-by were lost. You could tramp for ever in the alleyways and back courts; there were streets with no name, 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