The last French lesson

Now Franz understands what was on the bulletin board. 'My last French lesson!' He hardly knows how to write. Now he will never learn. He is sorry for not learning his lessons, for seeking birds' eggs and going sliding on the Saar. His books, which had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, are now old friends he cannot give up. And he forgets all about M. Hamel's ruler and how cranky he had been: the thought that he is going away makes Franz feel sorry for him.

The village elders, he realises, are sitting there because they are sorry they had not gone to school more. It is their way of thanking their master for his forty years of faithful service, and of showing respect for the country that is theirs no more.

Then his name is called. It is his turn to recite the rule for participles, and he gets mixed up on the first words and stands there, his heart beating, not daring to look up. M. Hamel does not scold him. He says that Franz is punished enough. 'Every day we have said to ourselves, "Bah! I've plenty of time. I'll learn it tomorrow." That is the great trouble with Alsace: she puts off learning till tomorrow.' And he shares the blame: parents sent their children to work on farms or at the mills to earn a little more money; and he himself sent the children to water his flowers, or gave them a holiday when he wanted to go fishing.

Then he talks of the French language. He calls it the most beautiful language in the world: the clearest and the most logical. 'We must guard it among us and never forget it,' he says, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language, it is as if they had the key to their prison.

He opens a grammar book and reads the lesson, and Franz is amazed at how well he understands it: everything seems easy. After grammar comes writing, with new copies on which M. Hamel has written 'France, Alsace, France, Alsace' in beautiful round hand. Everyone works quietly; the only sound is the scratching of pens. Pigeons coo softly on the roof, and Franz wonders, 'Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?' Old Hauser, his spectacles on, spells the letters with the little ones, his voice trembling with emotion.

At twelve, the church clock strikes, the Angelus rings, and the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sound under the windows. M. Hamel stands up, very pale. 'My friends,' he says, 'I... I...' But something chokes him; he cannot go on. He turns to the blackboard, takes a piece of chalk, and writes as large as he can: 'Vive La France!' Then he stops, leans his head against the wall, and without a word makes a gesture with his hand: 'School is dismissed... you may go.'