“We must compete on their field. They won’t give it to us any other way. Deep down, the spectacle of a liberated woman terrifies men. They’d rather make monsters or whores of us all.”

“We want the same thing,” I said. “But not so we can be more like men. I’d prefer they be more like us, frankly—in our truest form.”

“Are there no ‘manly’ virtues you would want for us?”

“Reason. Moral rightness. Strength, courage. The same as I want for all people. Based on education, not birth or status or title.”

“Don’t you believe in heroism?” said Paine, enjoying our parrying with each other.

“I do, but war doesn’t teach men heroic virtues. It’s right to defend your own country under attack, but most wars are fought for financial gain, and valorize greed. A soldier is trained in cunning and artifice.”

“Exactly how women seduce men,” Théroigne said with a wink.

“Yes. How easily private tyrannies become public ones.”

Théroigne leaned forward, her beatific face now fierce. “But we too wish to gain a civic crown, Wollstonecraft, and the right to die for our liberty, which might be dearer to us than to men, since our sufferings under despots have been greater.”

“But who decides who will die? Those with power.”

“Then let us wrest the power away, by any means. We’re in a battle for our lives.”

I was taken with her, as Paine knew I would be, and in the middle of May, insisted that Imlay come with me to see her speak about the rights of women on the Terrasse des Feuillants in the Garden of the Tuileries. I knew he would feel about her as I did.

“Let us raise ourselves to the height of our destinies; let us break our chains!” she yelled to the crowd, in her tight cropped jacket, full skirt, sash, and sword. “But let us also stop and think how we will wield our power, or else we are lost!”

I turned my head to watch Imlay watch her. Even when he was in profile, all his feelings were on display. He turned to me with a conspiratorial smile, his eyes brimming with excitement. Here was a man not threatened but thrilled by the “spectacle of a liberated woman.” But when he turned back to watch her, I saw his mouth gape in horror. Market women in red pantaloons and caps, who’d terrorized the streets for weeks, were pushing their way to the front, arms raised, with stones in their fists. The first stone flew over Théroigne’s head, the next missed her by a sliver, but then she took a direct hit to the forehead, blood dripping down her nose and into her hair. The women breached the steps, knocking her down. I lost sight of her, but Imlay, taller than I was, could still see. He grabbed my hand.