Springfield globe-republic. (Springfield, Ohio) 1884-1887, 1886-10-17
JEAN PEGOLAN.

Jean Pcgloan, farmer OF Eyevettes, Is
In q good humor this evening. Around
him the wind is signing among the leaves
of the trees the melancholy song of au-
tumn. while the low sun is sending its
red, level rays through the branches; the
sky is dark blue, the scent-penetrating
and spicy-of the fallen leaves fills the
forest, and Jean Pegolan, moved half un-
consciously by the ripe, mellow beauty of
all around him, touches his good gray
mare with his whip lightly to hurry her
on her homeward way.
1t IL true that the German army Is
marching on Paris; true that the ePrusSians
have pillaged a village here, burned farm
house there, and even that they have shot
some inoffensive peasants now and then;
but after all, what is that to Jean Pogo
Ian,
His horses, his cattle, his fields have
not suffered from the marauders.
In the town where he has just sold his
crops he saw some Prussians-and really
they were not such monsters-but men
like ourselves.
Just as he turns at the Croix Verte, the
village with its high church towers, the
weathercock on the top, turned to burn
ing, molten gold by the rays of the set
ting sun, meets his eye.
At that sight Jean Pegloan smiles, al
ready he tastes in imagination the good
soup smoking on the table in expectation
of his arrival, and his mouth waters.
"Allons! Hue la Grise."
But la Grise stops suddenly. A Ger
man aide-de camp has ridden up, and
forced to draw rein by the narrowness of
the road, and Jean Pegolan, being rather
slow in turning out for him, the officer
raises his whip and the lash cuts across
the farmers face from ear to ear. Ger
tainly the farmer of Eyevettes has a
most profound respect for the conquerors
of his native land, but at this blow rage
fills his heart. Standing up in his cart,
he returns it with interest.
The heavy wooden seat comes crashing
down upon the head Of the Prussian, who
tumbled off his horse with broken skull
In the forest the trees are tall, silence
broods over all, the moon is rising slowly
above the horizon from behind veil of
light, transparent clouds.
Pegolan, his rage gone as quickly as it
came, glancesfearfully about him.
The Prussian has tumbled head fore
most into dry ditch, his heels high in
bottom. There is small fear of his re
brothers in arms.
'Allons, Hue la Griser And the
mare bounds under the lash and sets off
for home at gallop.
of sheep into the church-the peasants of
the neighborhood.
They are huddled together in the nave
of the building-some very pale, others
very red-the throats of all choked with
fear. Through the tall, unpeinted win
dows of the church crude light falls,
cutting large bleak squares upon the rude
blouses and lighting up cruelty these
faces, of which terror has drawn the lips
and pinched the nostrils. Above the al
tar, between two unlighted wax tapers,
hangs a great plaster image of the cruci-
fed Saviour; its outstretched arms seem to
be blessing those below. From the grave
yard surrounding the church come the
heavy, pungent odors of the dying leaves
mingled with the chattering of the spar
rows quarreling among the tombstones.
The evening before German patrol had
discovered at the crossroad of the Croix
Verte the body of the murdered Uhlan
lying in the ditch-murdered by one of
the cOwardly peasants without doubt.
At dawn battalion of Saxon chas-
seurs has marched into Eyevettes, and,
by order of the commander, all the men
round about have been driven into and
shut up in the church. They have been
given till noon to discover and deliver up
the assassin to justice. That time past,
and the murderer not found. the village
with its outlying farms will be set on fire.
Half-past eleven has just been tolled
from the clock tower. oh, if they, the
peasants, only knew who this assassin,
this murderer, this bandit was, who had
brought them into this predieament, how
gladly would they deliver him up. If nee
essary, they would hang him with their
own hands. But, alas, they do not know
and time is passing. He who could free
his neighbors and his friends from this
who could say to them
with truth: 1.-The murderer, the assassin,
the bapdit-it is I-behold himr' he is
very careful not to utter word Seated
in the shadow of one of the confession
ais, his cap drawn down tightly over his
eyes, sick with fear, Jean Pegolan thinks
SA his ~ so1ht cbtA1lASG VI
cows ruminating peacefully in the
of his hay bursting through the
of his granary; and he tells HIM
self that to die now is to leave all these
good gifts of Providence forever.
Would he not therefore be very stupid
to confesss After all, he did not mean to
kill the Prussian; he had no idea he
struck so hard. And with these argu-
ments he quiets his conscience.
II the lot to die falls on an innocent
man, why, SO much the worse for the
poor wretch-yes, everybody for himself
in this selfish world.
Ding, dong, ding. Eleven and three
quarters ring out from the church steeple.
Only quarter of an hour left them to
make up their minds.
The vibrations of the bell die slowly
away, and silence like great dark bird
lalls down upon the yaulted room. Then
he regular heavy tread of a company of
soldiers is heard outside-a harsh voice
,alls "Haltr' and the butts of the mus
1ets fall with hollow changing sound on
he ground. Decidedly it is time for the |
prisoners in the church to discover the |
murderer.
Now one among them whispers a
lame. 1t is only whisper, yet some I
low every one has heard it. Quickly, !
quickly those about who have no desire /
o be shot or turned out of house and .
lome take it up-it resounds from every
ide.
Jean Pegolan draws great breath of
elief. 1t is not his name that he hears.
t is that of a poor wretch, half wood
utter. half poacher-a "red" who voted
on at the plebiscite. The miserable man
as a sickly wife and three small chill
rem, of whom the oldest one has Just
egun to run about alone.
The death of the father will leave his
amily to die of hunger. But if he did
ot absolutely kill the Prussian, he is
apa5le of doing it. Then, too, he is q
eggar-a thief-and the others are rich