By Alphonse Daudet
I started for school very late that morning and was in greatdread of a scolding， especially because M. Hamel had said thathe would question us on participles， and I did not know the firstword about them. For a moment I thought of running away andspending the day out of doors. It was so warm， so bright！ Thebirds were chirping at the edge of the woods； and in the openfield back of the saw-mill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. Itwas all much more tempting than the rule for participles， but Ihad the strength to resist， and hurried off to school.
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front ofthe bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news hadcome from there—the lost battles， the draft， the orders of thecommanding officer—and I thought to myself， without stopping：
“What can be the matter now？”
Then， as I hurried by as fast as I could go， the blacksmith，Wachter， who was there， with his apprentice， reading thebulletin， called after me：
“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’slittle garden all out of breath.
Usually， when school began， there was a great bustle， whichcould be heard out in the street， the opening and closing ofdesks， lessons repeated in unison， very loud， with our handsover our ears to understand better， and the teacher’s great rulerrapping on the table. But now it was all so still！ I had countedon the commotion to get to my desk without being seen； but，of course， that day everything had to be as quiet as Sundaymorning. Through the window I saw my classmates， alreadyin their places， and M. Hamel walking up and down with histerrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and goin before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and howfrightened I was.
But nothing happened， M. Hamel saw me and said verykindly：
“Go to your place quickly， little Franz. We were beginningwithout you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not tillthen， when I had got a little over my fright， did I see that ourteacher had on his beautiful green coat， his frilled shirt， andthe little black silk cap， all embroidered， that he never woreexcept on inspection and prize days. Besides， the whole schoolseemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised memost 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 formerpostmaster， 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 lyingacross the pages.
While I was wondering about it all， M. Hamel mounted hischair， and， in the same grave and gentle tone which he hadused to me， said：
“My children， this is the last lesson I shall give you. The orderhas come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools ofAlsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This isyour 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 townhall！
My last French lesson！ Why， I hardly knew how to write！ Ishould never learn any more！ I must stop there， then！ Oh， howsorry I was for not learning my lessons， for seeking birds’ eggs，or going sliding on the Saar！ My books， that had seemed sucha nuisance a while ago， so heavy to carry， my grammar， andmy history of the saints， were old friends now that I couldn’tgive up. And M. Hamel， too； the idea that he was going away，that I should never see him again， made me forget all about hisruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man！ It was in honor of this last lesson that he had puton his fine Sunday-clothes， and now I understood why the oldmen of the village were sitting there in the back of the room.
It was because they were sorry， too， that they had not gone toschool more. It was their way of thanking our master for hisforty years of faithful service and of showing their respect forthe country that was theirs no more.
