Next morning at six, just after the morning prayer, M. Merovee came
into the school-room and made us a most straightforward, manly, and
affecting speech; in which he told us he meant to keep on the
school, and thanked us, boys and masters, for our sympathy.
We were all moved to our very depths--and sat at our work solemn and
sorrowful all through that lamp-lit hour and a half; we hardly dared
to cough, and never looked up from our desks.
Then 7.30--ding-dang-dong and breakfast. Thursday--bread-and-butter
morning!
I felt hungry and greedy and very sad, and disinclined to fight.
Barty and I had sat turned away from each other, and made no attempt
at reconciliation.
We all went to the refectoire: it was raining fast. I made my ball
of salt and butter, and put it in a hole in my hunk of bread, and
ran back to the study, where I locked these treasures in my desk.
The study soon filled with boys: no masters ever came there during
that half-hour; they generally smoked and read their newspapers in
the gymnastic ground, or else in their own rooms when it was wet
outside.
D'Orthez and Berquin moved one or two desks and forms out of the way
so as make a ring--l'arene, as they called it--with comfortable
seats all round. Small boys stood on forms and window-sills eating
their bread-and-butter with a tremendous relish.
"Dites donc, vous autres," says Bonneville, the wit of the school,
who was in very high spirits; "it's like the Roman Empire during the
decadence--'_panem et circenses_!'"
"What's that, _circenses_? what does it mean?" says Rapaud, with his
mouth full.
"Why, _butter_, you idiot! Didn't you know _that_?" says Bonneville.
Barty and I stood opposite each other; at his sides as seconds were
d'Orthez and Berquin; at mine, Jolivet trois (the only Jolivet now
left in the school) and big du Tertre-Jouan (the young marquis who
wasn't Bonneville).
We began to spar at each other in as knowing and English a way as we
knew how--keeping a very respectful distance indeed, and trying to
bear ourselves as scientifically as we could, with a keen expression
of the eye.
When I looked into Barty's face I felt that nothing on earth would
ever make me hit such a face as that--whatever he might do to mine.
My blood wasn't up; besides, I was a coarse-grained, thick-set,
bullet-headed little chap with no nerves to speak of, and didn't mind
punishment the least bit. No more did Barty, for that matter, though
he was the most highly wrought creature that ever lived.
At length they all got impatient, and d'Orthez said:
"Allez donc, godems--ce n'est pas un quadrille! Nous n'sommes pas a
La Salle Valentino!"
And Barty was pushed from behind so roughly that he came at me, all
his science to the winds and slogging like a French boy; and I,
quite without meaning to, in the hurry, hit out just as he fell over
me, and we both rolled together over Jolivet's foot--Barty on top
(he was taller, though not heavier, than I); and I saw the blood
flow from his nose down his lip and chin, and some of it fell on my
blouse.
Says Barty to me, in English, as we lay struggling on the dusty
floor:
"Look here, it's no good. I _can't_ fight to-day; poor Merovee, you
know. Let's make it up!"
"All right!" says I. So up we got and shook hands, Barty saying,
with mock dignity:
"Messieurs, le sang a coule; l'honneur britannique est sauf;" and
the combat was over.
"Cristi! J'ai joliment faim!" says Barty, mopping his nose with his
handkerchief. "I left my crust on the bench outside the refectoire.
I wish one of you fellows would get it for me."
"Rapaud finished your crust [ta miche] while you were fighting,"
says Jolivet. "I saw him."
Says Rapaud: "Ah, Dame, it was getting prettily wet, your crust, and
I was prettily hungry too; and I thought you didn't want it,
naturally."
I then produced _my_ crust and cut it in two, butter and all, and
gave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, and
breakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier or
hungrier.
"Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus," says little Vaissiere to
little Cormenu. "As-tu vu? Josselin a saigne tout plein sur la
blouse a Maurice." (How well they fought! Josselin bled all over
Maurice's blouse!)
Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightful
jolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through a
mist:
"I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb." (J'aime
mieux saigner sur ta blouse que sur ta tombe.)
So ended the only quarrel we ever had.