"Voilà bien les Anglais!—rien n'est sacré pour eux, pas même la mort! rien que les chiens et les chevaux." (Nothing, not even death, is sacred to Englishmen—nothing but dogs and horses.)
When we went up to bed the head‑boy of the school—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. 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.