Liberty: The Lives and Times of Six Women in Revolutionary France. Lucy Moore

kept in some style by the rich, elderly and unpleasant marquis de Persan, whose advances she later insisted she had evaded. She called herself Mlle Campinado, after a branch of her mother's family, and regularly attended the opera alone, ‘covered in diamonds, in a large box’.

      Her air of melancholy mystery was not contrived. She gave birth to a daughter, whom her English lover refused to acknowledge and who died in 1788 of smallpox. An affair with an Italian tenor ended badly; then she fell in love with another Italian singer, a celebrated castrato and, somewhat surprisingly, seducer, called Ferdinand-Justin Tenducci, who encouraged her hopes for a musical career. She followed him to Genoa, and although their connection ended in the courts, stayed there alone for a year.

      Anne-Josèphe returned to Paris in May 1789, just before the Bastille fell. Although as yet she knew no one involved in the coming revolution and was unfamiliar with the ideas behind it, her unhappiness with her lot in pre-revolutionary France had prepared her to love liberty instantly and instinctively. She was enthralled by the ‘general effervescence’ she sensed around her, recognizing that her chance to change her own life could come at this moment of crisis and opportunity.

      While the nineteenth-century poet Lamartine described her ‘descending into the streets’ on 14 July, ‘her beauty like a banner to the multitude’, in fact she said she did not witness the main events of those days. On the evening of the day the Bastille fell, she and her maid went down on to the streets of Paris—her lodgings were a five-minute walk from the Palais Royal—and saw the crowds of men, some armed, some searching for arms. Afraid of attracting their attention, she returned to her rooms, unaware of what had taken place on the other side of the city. The next day she heard the news, and first saw people with green cockades. She immediately began wearing one herself, tucking the green leaves into her hat-band as a mark of support for Desmoulins and then, when leaves were replaced by the tricolour rosette as the sign of reform, she took the tricolour instead.

      When the king came to Paris on 17 July and pinned the tricolour cockade to his hat outside the Hôtel de Ville, demonstrating his surrender to the forces of change, Anne-Josèphe walked in the rapturous crowd ahead of him. She was wearing the costume that was to make her famous, a white riding-habit, or amazone, and round-brimmed hat. This choice of severely masculine dress was deliberate: she wanted ‘to play the role of a man, because I had always been extremely humiliated by the servitude and prejudices, under which the pride of men holds my oppressed sex’.

      Anne-Josèphe's resentment was not unusual. Even Germaine de Staël, an only child, an heiress, a member of the most progressive society in the land, as privileged and free as a woman could be in eighteenth-century France, railed against the discrimination that restricted her; many others, like Anne-Josèphe, had more to complain about. In 1788, the teen-aged Lucile Duplessis, before her marriage to the journalist Camille Desmoulins, had expressed her frustrations in her journal: ‘How the months, the days, seem long to me, what a sad fate is woman's and how much do we suffer! Slavery, tyranny, that is our lot…Nothing is fair for us! Ah! That they [men] would worship us less and set us free!’ An unhappily married Mme Morel from Choiseul had ‘set up the tricoloured cockade and preached liberty before her husband's face’ in 1789, explicitly associating public with domestic tyranny. For women, the revolution's rejection of the paternal authority of the ancien régime state carried within it an implicit rejection of the private injustices they endured in their own lives.

      For Anne-Josèphe, whose family had not wanted her, whose lovers had abandoned and betrayed her, the impression of being trapped by her sex was doubly strong. She was a fallen woman, living outside society and despised by decent women like the workers who had petitioned the king at the start of 1789. Men had tried only to buy or to use her. Her adored daughter's death and her own struggle, while she was in Genoa, with severe venereal disease, can only have increased her antipathy to her former life.

      From the summer of 1789, Anne-Josèphe Terwagne, formerly Mlle Campinado, became simply Théroigne, using her real name as if to express a sense of coming into her true self. She sold some shares she had and pawned her jewels to fund her newly modest existence, proudly recoiled from any suggestion of impropriety—even, according to one report, scorning personal cleanliness, a mark of the ‘professional coquette’, as a political statement—and turned her back on her past. The revolution offered her a new life: ‘the kept woman,’ as Simon Schama phrases it, ‘had become a free person’.

      Nearly every day Théroigne walked in the Palais Royal, absorbing the new ideas of liberty and equality that she heard there. ‘What most impressed me was the atmosphere of general benevolence; egoism seemed to have been banished, so that everyone spoke to each other, irrespective of distinctions [of rank],’ she marvelled. ‘During this moment of upheaval, the rich mixed with the poor and did not disdain to speak to them as equals.’ Her private transformation was mirrored on the faces of the people she saw around her. ‘Everyone's countenance seemed to me to have altered; each person had fully developed his character and his natural facilities,’ she wrote. ‘I saw many who, though covered in rags, had a heroic air.’ Heroism seemed possible even for a woman with a past like hers; humiliation had been displaced by equality and opportunity.

      So stirred was she by this spectacle that she decided to move to Versailles, where the National Assembly met, to watch their debates on the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. She was overcome by the beauty and grandeur of the Assembly. Every day, wearing her amazone, Théroigne sat in the same seat in the visitors' gallery, or tribune; every day she was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Although initially she could hardly follow the debates, little by little she began to understand the issues. ‘My devotion to the revolution increased as I grew better informed and became convinced that right and justice were on the people's side.’

      Théroigne was in her usual place in the tribune of the National Assembly on the afternoon of 5 October 1789 when the market women entered Versailles. She left before the session ended, perhaps unamused by the sight of the marchers debasing the hall she so revered with their poissard banter; but, wanting to see what was going on, she walked with a friend to her street corner and saw the Flanders regiment, the royal bodyguard and the female marchers with their cannon pass by. On her way home she saw three or four unhappy people who had not eaten for several days; she brought them some bread, and then went back to her lodgings for the night.

      When she returned to the Assembly as usual at about six or half past the following morning and heard that it had been in session throughout the night, she went out into the crowds gathered in front of the palace to hear what they were saying. Dressed in a riding-habit, as usual—she had one in scarlet, one in white, and one in black—she mingled with the market women and soldiers before taking her seat in the tribune again.

      In 1791, when she was held prisoner in Austria, Théroigne was cross-examined about those October days. The Austrian government, fearful of upheaval in their own territories and keen to defend Marie-Antoinette, wanted to know whether the duc d'Orléans had paid the women to go to Versailles and cause trouble. Théroigne, surprised at the allegation, replied that although she did not know Orléans she believed him to be a good patriot. They were also curious about stories of men dressed as women, but Théroigne had not seen any. When they asked her what she thought had caused the demonstration, she replied the people's enthusiasm for liberty and their devotion to it. It was clear from her deposition that it was not she who had led the bloodthirsty mob into the palace, bribed the marchers on behalf of Orléans or plotted to assassinate the queen, the crimes of which the Austrians and the French royalists, keen to find a scapegoat, suspected her.

      When the National Assembly reopened in Paris later in October of 1789, Théroigne was in the tribune. She was becoming acquainted with the men whose newspaper articles and speeches she admired so fervently: Camille Desmoulins, the progressive journalist Jacques-Pierre Brissot and the handsome lawyer Jérôme Pétion.

      Two other men now assumed a particular importance in her political life, neither of whom was likely to cause her to blush angrily, as she was known to do, at whispered insinuations. The Abbé Sieyès was a reserved, uncompromising intellectual much respected in the Assembly who bridged the gap, as did several of Théroigne's friends, between the aristocratic liberals of Germaine de Staël's salon and