urned her head, and she lived in the intoxication of
passions, ideas, and pleasures. Connected at first with the great
innovators of '89, she had passed from their arms into those of rich
voluptuaries, who purchased her charms dearly. Courtezan of opulence,
she became the voluntary prostitute of the people; and like her
celebrated prototypes of Egypt or of Rome, she lavished upon liberty the
wealth she derived from vice.

On the first assemblage of the people she appeared in the streets, and
devoted her beauty to serve as an ensign to the people. Dressed in a
riding habit of the colour of blood, a plume of feathers in her hat, a
sabre at her side, and two pistols in her belt, she hastened to join
every insurrection. She was the first of those who burst open the gates
of the Invalides and took the cannon from thence. She was also one of
the first to attack the Bastille; and a sabre d'homme was voted her on
the breach by the victors. On the days of October, she had led the women
of Paris to Versailles, on horseback, by the side of the ferocious
Jourdan, called "_the man with the long beard_." She had brought back
the king to Paris: she had followed, without emotion, the heads of the
gardes du corps, stuck on pikes as trophies. Her language, although
marked by a foreign accent, had yet the eloquence of tumult. She
elevated her voice amidst the stormy meetings of the clubs, and from the
galleries blamed their conduct. Sometimes she spoke at the Cordeliers.
Camille Desmoulins mentions the enthusiasm which her harangues created.
"Her similes," says he, "were drawn from the Bible and Pindar,--it was
the eloquence of a Judith." She proposed to build the palace of the
representative body on the site of the Bastille. "To found and embellish
this edifice," said she, "let us strip ourselves of our ornaments, our
gold, our jewels. I will be the first to set the example." And with
these words she tore off her ornaments in the tribune. Her ascendency
during the _emeutes_ was so great, that with a single sign she condemned
or acquitted a victim; and the royalists trembled to meet her.

During this period, by one of those chances that appear like the
premeditated vengeances of destiny, she recognised in Paris the young
Belgian gentleman who had seduced and abandoned her. Her look told him
how great was his danger, and he sought to avert it by imploring her
pardon. "My pardon," said she; "at what price can you purchase it? My
innocence