I soon found myself in a class of boys of twelve to fifteen years of age. They were having a lesson in German, and were reading a “piece” called “_Der arme Sepp_,” the history of whose misfortunes (he was a stable-boy, and the horse ran away and the wagon was broken, and he was received by his master with blows) didn’t seem to stick; for after it had been read out no boy, in answer to Lieutenant Fress’s questions, could recount the short and simple annals of poor Sepp. They weren’t nearly so bright as the girls. Dull-eyed, pimply-faced, squeaky-voiced, they were wrestling with something that was for the time stronger than books—the eternal _Frühlings Erwachen_, that has always occupied philosophers and scientists—though not so much parents, who are apt to avoid the issues involved. We passed finally into a class where young women were dissecting _Les Obsèques de la Lionne_, under the guidance of a brown-bearded, one-armed teacher in uniform. It was a small room, and you could have cut the air with a knife. And for the mist I could scarcely see the placard “_Pourquoi on ne peut pas conclure une paix fondée sur la parole d’Allemagne_” and the portraits of Clémenceau and Poincaré. About this time I began to understand that La Fontaine is the pillar of the French educational system; and there is no doubt that he _did_ clear up a lot of doubtful things, in the most liquid use of the clearest of all languages. We listened here to dissertations on the falseness of courts and courtiers, the charms of which were not touched on. How those who frequented them learned disastrous habits of dissimulation, not to say lying, and how ’twas better to live in obscurity (which for some reason is always supposed to be cheerful and where nobody ever lies perhaps because it isn’t worth while). Courts are not in favor anywhere just now, but everybody will admit they’ve had a glorious past; and as for democracy’s future, which the Bolsheviki and the New Freedom are decidedly handicapping, they _may_ run it a close second. This class was not so interesting, however, as were the children’s—discussions of intellectual propositions by people who aren’t intellectual being an awful bore at any time. Toward the end there was a horrid moment, Lieutenant Fress bearing up with equanimity, when the over-bold teacher, interrupting the reading, asked the meaning of the word “_apothéose_.” Dead silence. “_Continuez_,” he finally said, though a young woman with an immense amount of corn-colored hair waved low about some spectacled blue eyes, and wearing a large silver pin with the word “_Adieu_” on it, showed signs of being about to bring forth the answer. They finished the fable in unison in their strong border-accent, which seemed to get thicker and thicker as we got farther up the flights of learning.