MÉROVÉE RINGS THE BELL
school-room in the same house as ours, and had a small dormitory to themselves, with M. Bonzig to superintend them.
I made up my mind that I would no longer be a cancre and a crétin, but work hard and do my little best, so that I might keep up with Barty and pass into the troisième with him, and then into Rhétorique (seconde), and then into Philosophie (première)—that we might do our humanities and take our degree together—our "Bachot," which is short for Baccalauréat‑ès‑lettres. Most especially did I love Monsieur Durosier's class of French Literature—for which Mérovée always rang the bell himself.
My mother and sister were still at Ste.‑Adresse, Hâvre, with my father; so I spent my first Sunday that term at the Archibald Rohans', in the Rue du Bac.
I had often seen them at Brossard's, when they came to see Barty, but had never been at their house before.
They were very charming people.
Lord Archibald was dressing when we got there that Sunday morning, and we sat with him while he shaved—in an immense dressing‑room where there were half a dozen towel‑horses with about thirty pairs of newly ironed trousers on them instead of towels, and quite thirty pairs of shiny boots on trees were ranged along the wall. James, an impeccable English valet, waited on "his lordship," and never spoke unless spoken to.
"Hullo, Barty! Who's your friend?"