He
thought of his books that would remind him always now, of his
laziness--his grammar, his history, a present from his friend, the
school-master, from whom he must part now with so much pain. In the
midst of these thoughts, Franz heard his name called. It was his turn
to recite.
He would have given a great deal to be able to recite the famous order
of the participles, without a mistake, to give them clearly, and
without a fault. But he confused them at the first word, and remained
standing beside his desk, his heart trembling, not daring to raise his
head. He heard the school-master speaking to him,
"I am not going to rebuke you, little Franz. You are already punished.
Every day you have said to yourself, 'Bah, I have plenty of time;
to-morrow I will study.'"
"Ah, that has been the great fault in our Alsace, that of always
putting off learning until another day. In the meantime, all the world
has been quite right in saying of us, 'How is it that you pretend to
be French, and yet are not able to read and write your own language!'
Of all who are here, my poor little Franz, you are not the only one at
fault. We all must reproach ourselves."
Then the school-master told them of his longing to still teach the
children the French language.
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