While I was wondering at all this, Monsieur Hamel had mounted his platform, and in the same gentle
and serious voice with which he had welcomed me, he said to us:
“My children, this is the last time that I shall teach you. Orders have come from Berlin to teach nothing but German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new teacher arrives to-morrow. This is the last class in French, so I beg you to be very attentive.”
Those few words overwhelmed me. Ah! the villains! that was what they had posted at the mayor’s
office.
My last class in French!
And I barely knew how to write! So I should never learn! I must stop short where I was! How angry I
was with myself because of the time I had wasted, the lessons I had missed, running about after nests, or sliding on the Saar! My books, which only a moment before I thought so tiresome, so heavy to
carry—my grammar, my sacred history—seemed to me now like old friends, from whom I should be
terribly grieved to part. And it was the same about Monsieur Hamel. The thought that he was going
away, that I should never see him again, made me forget the punishments, the blows with the ruler.
Poor man! It was in honour of that last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes; and I
understood now why those old fellows from the village were sitting at the end of the room. It seemed to mean that they regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also a way of thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful service, and of paying their respects to the fatherland which was vanishing.
I was at that point in my reflections, when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say from beginning to end that famous rule about participles, in a loud, distinct voice, without a slip! But I got mixed up at the first words, and I stood there swaying against my bench, with a full heart, afraid to raise my head. I heard Monsieur Hamel speaking to me:
“I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough; that is the way it goes; every day we say to ourselves: ‘Pshaw! I have time enough. I will learn to-morrow.’ And then you see what
happens. Ah! it has been the great misfortune of our Alsace always to postpone its lessons until
to-morrow. Now those people are entitled to say to us: ‘What! you claim to be French, and you can
neither speak nor write your language!’ In all this, my poor Frantz, you are not the guiltiest one. We all have our fair share of reproaches to address to ourselves.
