One day, near the end of class, he says, “Today I am going to tell you about two great men who have left their mark on the history of humanity — Lamartine and Victor Hugo. They both lived in the last century.”

The names mean nothing to us, but then we already know, thanks to Monsieur Thibeault, that we don’t know much about anything.

“These two men,” he goes on, “were famous writers. They are said to be romantic writers because they wrote about their personal feeings, about life, death and love…”

The class is silent. Life, death — I think I know about them. But love?

Several students start shifting in their seats.

“They wrote poetry!” the teacher says.

Everyone bursts out laughing. Monsieur Thibeault smiles, too.

“Poetry?” says Miron. “That’s for sissies!”

When things have quieted down, the teacher says, “I am going to read you a short poem by Lamartine. Then we’ll finish with a little bit of Victor Hugo.”

Monsieur Thibeault is a good reader. He takes a page that’s sitting on his desk and almost turns pale with concentration. He reads with a serious voice, one hand over his heart:

O, Time, suspend thy flight; and you, blessed hours,

Your course a moment stay!

Let us taste the swift delights of this day of ours,

Of this our fairest day!

I don’t have time to take it all in, but it sounds nice.

He returns to his normal voice and says, “Now I am going to ask someone to read part of a poem by Victor Hugo.”

We all shut down our faces. Reading in front of the group is the worst.

The teacher’s gaze sweeps over the room for an instant and lands on me like a club.

“Larivière, it’s your turn!”

“Me? No, I don’t want to.” I’m as pale as a sheet.

Millette gives me a poke on the back.

“You can do it, Tonto! Go on!”

I get to my feet painfully. I go up to the front of the class. The teacher hands me the sheet of paper. The room is filled with a cruel silence, and I know that under the silence there’s a bomb waiting to go off as soon as I make the slightest mistake. I can just hear them all making fun of me under their breath.

“Just read the title first,” Monsieur Thibeault says.

I would give the shirt on my back, even my pack of tobacco, to make the bloody bell ring, but there are still six minutes left.

I cough and start to read.

“Oceano…Oceano nox…”

“Good!” he insists. “Carry on.”

I read the first words to myself.

My vision gets blurry as the words dance like a cloud of black flies in front of my eyes.

It isn’t possible.

Suddenly I’m in another classroom, at the residential school. I’m looking over the heads of the children with their empty, lifeless eyes.

Monsieur Thibeault sees my confusion. The whole class is ill at ease, the silence is heavy.