Free A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel

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