“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”

I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.

Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table.  But now it was all so still!  I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning.  Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm.  I had to open the door and go in before everybody.  You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.

But nothing happened, M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly: 

“Go to your place quickly, little Franz.  We were beginning without you.”

I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk.  Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days.  Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn.  But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides.  Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.

While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said: 

“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you.  The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine.  The new master comes to-morrow.  This is your last French lesson.  I want you to be very attentive.”

What a thunder-clap these words were to me!

Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall!

My last French lesson!  Why, I hardly knew how to write!  I should never learn any more!  I must stop there, then!  Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar!  My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up.  And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.

Poor man!  It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday-clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room.  It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more.  It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.