be there , a part of it all , a participant in the downfall of kings and the construction of
something new from the rubble ? The statues of the saints were beheaded in April . By
May the revolutionary women marched in the streets , braving the heat of June and the
chaos of July to throw flowers on the coffins of their martyrs . The new statues of Notre
Dame bled , scarred and freckled in the sun . Sometimes they died for what they believed
in . Pauline would play Love for love of her country , without any illusions about what the
role entailed . She ’ d been sneered at often enough by the shopkeepers who had once
been her friends : “ Only Jacobin whores wear cockades .” Now , she wanted to smile , to
crinkle up her face with mirth and let her wine spill all over the cracked flagstone floor .
The tricolored ribbon pinned to her garment had made her a whore and something
more . The lively crowd that surrounded her , staving off the chill of the early winter
night , traded talk of taxes levied on the rich , food guaranteed for all , freedom from
religion . When Pauline spoke , they listened .
When Pauline kissed them , they sighed with delight . The Cult of Reason
eschewed dreary preaching and condemnation of harmless vice . She fell into the arms of
a dryad to discuss the essential rights of humankind , twirling sprigs of woody ivy round
her finger , and those who saw Pauline ’ s soft mouth meet the lips of her companion
whistled and cheered at the sight . Her hands caressed waists in corsets and chitons ,