So round he went, from boy to boy, deliberately fixing each boy with his eye, and severely asking—"Est‑ce toi?" "Est‑ce toi?" "Est‑ce toi?" etc., and waiting very deliberately indeed for the answer, and even asking for it again if it were not given in a firm and audible voice. And the answer was always, "Non, m'sieur, ce n'est pas moi!"
But when he came to each of us (Josselin and me) he just mumbled his "Est‑ce toi?" in a quite perfunctory voice, and didn't even wait for the answer!
When he got to the last boy of all, who said "Non, m'sieur," like all the rest, he left the room, saying, tragically (and, as I thought, rather theatrically for him):
"Je m'en vais le cœur navré—il y a un lâche parmi vous!" (My heart is harrowed—there's a coward among you.)
There was an awkward silence for a few moments.
Presently Rapaud got up and went out. We all knew that Rapaud was the delinquent—he had bragged about it so—overnight in the dormitory. He went straight to M. Mérovée and confessed, stating that he did not like to be put on his word of honor before the whole school. I forget whether he was punished or not, or how. He had to make his apologies to M. Dumollard, of course.
To put the whole school on its word of honor was thought a very severe measure, coming as it did from the head master in person. "La parole d'honneur" was held to be very sacred between boy and boy, and even between boy and head master. The boy who broke it was always "mis à la quarantaine" (sent to Coventry) by the rest of the school.
"I wonder why he let off Josselin and Maurice so easily?" said Jolivet, at breakfast.
"Parce qu'il aime les Anglais, ma foi!" said M. Dumollard—"affaire de goût!"
"Ma foi, il n'a pas tort!" said M. Bonzig.