a first-rate boy
called d'Orthez, and Berquin (another first-rate boy), who had each
a bedroom to himself, came into the dormitory and took up the
quarrel, and discussed what should be done. Both of us were
English--ergo, both of us ought to box away the insult with our
fists; so "they set a combat us between, to fecht it in the
dawing"--that is, just after breakfast, in the school-room.

I went to bed very unhappy, and so, I think, did Barty.

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