While I was thinking of all this， I heard my name called. Itwas my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able tosay that dreadful rule for the participle all through， very loud andclear， and without one mistake？ But I got mixed up on the firstwords and stood there， holding on to my desk， my heart beating，and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me：
“I won’t scold you， little Franz； you must feel bad enough.
See how it is！ Every day we have said to ourselves： ‘Bah！ I’veplenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see wherewe’ve come out. Ah， that’s the great trouble with Alsace； sheputs off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out therewill have the right to say to you： ‘How is it； you pretend to beFrenchmen， and yet you can neither speak nor write your ownlanguage？’ But you are not the worst， poor little Franz. We’veall a great deal to reproach ourselves with.
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn.
They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills，so as to have a little more money. And I？ I’ve been to blamealso. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead oflearning your lessons？ And when I wanted to go fishing， did Inot just give you a holiday？”
Then， from one thing to another， M. Hamel went on to talkof the French language， saying that it was the most beautifullanguage in the world—the clearest， the most logical； that wemust guard it among us and never forget it， because when apeople are enslaved， as long as they hold fast to their languageit is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened agrammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how wellI understood it. All he said seemed so easy， so easy！ I think，too， that I had never listened so carefully， and that he had neverexplained everything with so much patience. It seemed almostas if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before goingaway， and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar， we had a lesson in writing. That dayM. Hamel had new copies for us， written in a beautiful roundhand： France， Alsace， France， Alsace. They looked like littleflags floating everywhere in the school-room， hung from therod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how everyone set to work， and how quiet it was！ The only sound was thescratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flewin； but nobody paid any attention to them， not even the littlestones， who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks， as if thatwas French， too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low， and Ithought to myself：
“Will they make them sing in German， even the pigeons？”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamelsitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing，then at another， as if he wanted to fix in his mind just howeverything looked in that little school-room. Fancy！ For fortyyears he had been there in the same place， with his gardenoutside the window and his class in front of him， just likethat. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth； thewalnut-trees in the garden were taller， and the hop-vine， thathe had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof.
How it must have broken his heart to leave it all， poor man； tohear his sister moving about in the room above， packing theirtrunks！ For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last.
After the writing， we had a lesson in history， and then thebabies chanted their ba， be， bi， bo， bu. Down there at the backof the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and， holdinghis primer in both hands， spelled the letters with them. Youcould see that he， too， was crying； his voice trembled withemotion， and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted tolaugh and cry. Ah， how well I remember it， that last lesson！
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then theAngelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians，returning from drill， sounded under our windows. M. Hamelstood up， very pale， in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.
“My friends，” said he， “I—I—” But something choked him.
He could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard， took a piece of chalk， and，bearing on with all his might， he wrote as large as he could：
“Vive La France！”
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall， and，without a word， he made a gesture to us with his hand； “Schoolis dismissed—you may go.”