r tattered pockets held not a single sou, unable to afford toys from the small shops, they fashioned miniature guillotines out of glass and wood scavenged from rubbish dumps and sewers, squatting on the ground playing with them, never getting bored.

The Republic still left them hungry, but provided them with novel performances to watch day and night without the need for a ticket. So they followed along, shouting, "Long live the Revolution! Long live the Jacobins and the Montagnards! Down with the King!"

However, these words held little sacred meaning to the children. They spoke them fluently, nothing different from the argot, swear, and lewd songs they learned on the streets. But sometimes the most profound philosophy emerged right from the mouths of Parisian street urchins.

"Mademoiselle Louisette has feasted well again today," said a tall, thin boy with wild hair, grinning.②

"Twelve heads in all," the smallest one counted seriously on his fingers.

"No, you''re wrong, Jacques. It''s thirteen!" corrected the slightly older girl beside him, dressed in thin and ragged clothing, with red cheeks from the cold wind.

"Thirteen! What a romantically spirited number! The symbolism is fantastic!" exclaimed the tall boy in an exaggerated voice, mimicking a mummer.

"A shame that it''s still a bit lacking. But they''re trying the kind-hearted Hébert and his band of godly Sans-Culottes today. Madame Guillotine is soon having another grand banquet," added another pockmarked waif.③

"I believe in equality again. Whether it''s t