Next morning at six, just after the morning prayer, M. Mérovée 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 réfectoire: 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'arène, 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 à La Salle Valentino!"