"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!"
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: