“ Rise , Hephaestus . Do you pledge your art in the service of the Republic ?”
“ I do .” Hilarity vied with sincerity on the gunsmith ’ s handsome face , and
Pauline ’ s heart softened further . He wanted her . Pauline was willing . He belonged to
her in myth as she belonged to the sacred mob , and all assembled knew it , with their
bated breaths and stifled mutters of linen on silk , hip to hip , leaning in to witness the
consummation . Pauline accepted the totality of their power . Hephaestus accepted her
kiss .
And together , their kiss blew forge embers to flame with the gasps and moans of
the merry cultists of Paris . They were molten gold mixed with the blackest soot on the
scorched icon of the Virgin in its niche high above . They were undying and they were in
love with the smoke pall of history hanging over the tomb of the city . Pauline had
thought she ’ d understood love , hand in hand with her sisters , weeping over the grave in
the quiet courtyard of the Club des Cordeliers . It was as easy to love as it was to hate the
enemies of freedom , or the allies who wouldn ’ t listen to the impassioned speech of a
poor , low-born girl . The goddess in the girl saw the falsity of these divisions . In the
thrall of her spell Jacobin dignitaries made love to royalist spies . Defrocked clergy
desperately clutched the hands of avowed atheists . Union leaders embraced their scabs .
Each was her beloved , and the meanest of them was a crucible of beautiful potential . As