The Jolly Rogers
Cory, in N. Y. World
PIERRE, SANSCULOTTE
BY LA SALLE CORBELL PICKETT.
You wonder why the world should be so fair to me today—to me, Pierre of the People, the poor oppressed people, whose heart’s blood has been crushed out until it rushed forth in floods that cover the streets of Paris with a crimson stain?
Even for me the sun shines today and the flowers bloom with a fragrance they never breathed before—the red stains that clot the dust in the street are great crimson roses blossoming with a glory never before worn by flowers.
“Pierre,” said Monsieur le Géneral, “you are not a traitor to France, are you?”
“No, Monsieur,” I said sturdily, setting my teeth and giving him as steady a look as he was bending upon me.
I told the truth. We who would free France from the rule of the aristocrats are not traitors. Rather are they traitors who would make of our nation a stagnant pool of slavery and corruption.