The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George
to America together, and she'll die, and I'll die, and you shall bleed yourself to death on my tomb!"
"No," said I, after a moment's thought. "No – look here! I'll marry your sister, and I'll die, and you shall bleed over my tomb!"
Then, after a pause:
"I haven't got a sister, as you know quite well – and if I had she wouldn't be for you!" says Barty.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not good‐looking enough!" says Barty.
At this, just for fun, I gave him a nudge in the wind with my elbow – and he gave me a "twisted pinch" on the arm – and I kicked him on the ankle, but so much harder than I intended that it hurt him, and he gave me a tremendous box on the ear, and we set to fighting like a couple of wild‐cats, without even getting up, to the scandal of the whole study and the indignant disgust of M. Dumollard, who separated us, and read us a pretty lecture:
"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.
"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:
"Look here, it's no good. I can't fight to‐day; poor Mérovée, you know. Let's make it up!"
"All right!" says I. So up we got and shook hands, Barty saying, with mock dignity:
"Messieurs, le sang a coulé; l'honneur britannique est sauf;" and the combat was over.
"Cristi! J'ai joliment faim!" says Barty, mopping his nose with his handkerchief. "I left my crust on the bench outside the réfectoire. I wish one of you fellows would get it for me."
"Rapaud finished your crust [ta miche] while you were fighting," says Jolivet. "I saw him."
Says Rapaud: "Ah, Dame, it was getting prettily wet, your crust, and I was prettily hungry too; and I thought you didn't want it, naturally."
I then produced my crust and cut it in two, butter and all, and gave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, and breakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier or hungrier.
"Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus," says little Vaissière to little Cormenu. "As‐tu vu? Josselin a saigné tout plein sur la blouse à Maurice." (How well they fought! Josselin bled all over Maurice's blouse!)
Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightful jolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through a mist:
"I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb." (J'aime mieux saigner sur ta blouse que sur ta tombe.)
So ended the only quarrel we ever had.
Part Third
"Que ne puis‐je aller où s'en vont les roses,
Et n'attendre pas
Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses
Nous garde ici‐bas!" – Anon.
Barty worked very hard, and so did I – for me! Horace – Homer – Æschylus – Plato – etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., and all there was to learn in that French school-boy's encyclopædia – "Le Manuel du Baccalauréat"; a very thick book in very small print. And I came to the conclusion that it is good to work hard: it makes one enjoy food and play and sleep so keenly – and Thursday afternoons.
The school was all the pleasanter for having fewer boys; we got more intimate with each other, and with the masters too. During the winter M. Bonzig told us capital stories —Modeste Mignon, by Balzac —Le Chevalier de Maison‐rouge, by A. Dumas père – etc., etc.
In the summer the Passy swimming‐bath was more delightful than ever. Both winter and summer we passionately fenced with a pupil (un prévôt) of the famous M. Bonnet, and did gymnastics with M. Louis, the gymnastic master of the Collège Charlemagne – the finest man I ever saw – a gigantic dwarf six feet high, all made up of lumps of sinew and muscles, like…
Also, we were taught equitation at the riding‐school in the Rue Duphot.
On Saturday nights Barty would draw a lovely female profile, with a beautiful big black eye, in pen and ink, and carefully shade it; especially the hair, which was always as the raven's wing! And on Sunday morning he and I used to walk together to 108 Champs