noon
In the middle , dominating the situation , was a Greco-Roman pavilion , with a handsome Doric portico elevated ten or twelve feet above the ground , on a large , handsome terrace paved with asphalt and shaded by horse-chestnut trees . Under this noble esplanade , and ventilating themselves into it , were the kitchen and offices and pantry , and also the refectory -- a long room , furnished with two parallel tables , covered at the top by a greenish oil-cloth spotted all over with small black disks ; and alongside of these tables were wooden forms for the boys to sit together at meat -- `` la table des grands , '' `` la table des petits , '' each big enough for thirty boys and three or four masters . M. Brossard and his family breakfasted and dined apart , in their own private dining-room , close by . In this big refectory , three times daily , at 7.30 in the morning , at noon , and at 6 P.M. , boys and masters took their quotidian sustenance quite informally , without any laying of cloths or saying of grace either before or after ; one ate there to live -- one did not live merely to eat , at the Pension Brossard . Breakfast consisted of a thick soup , rich in dark-hued garden produce , and a large hunk of bread -- except on Thursdays , when a pat of butter was served out to each boy instead of that Spartan broth -- that `` brouet noir des Lacédémoniens , '' as we called it . Everybody who has lived in France knows how good French butter can often be -- and French bread . We triturated each our pat with rock-salt and made a round ball of it , and dug a hole in our hunk to put it in , and ate it in the play-ground with clasp-knives , making it last as long as we could .