about half past eleven
A sombre genius , he used to paint dark writhing horrors of souls in pain , and in his hours of relaxation to drink litres of anisette . At first he disliked and scoffed at me because I was an Englishman , which grieved me sorely , for I regarded him as the greatest genius , save Paragot , of my acquaintance . I found him ten years afterwards a _ sous-chef de gare _ on the Belgian frontier . It was about half past eleven . Our table gleamed a motley wilderness of glasses and saucers . Only two other tables were occupied : at the one two men and a woman played _ manille _ , on the other a pair of players rattled dominoes , Madame Boin , sunk into her rolls of fat , drowsed on her throne behind the counter . Hercule stood by , his dirty napkin tucked under his arm , listening to Paragot 's discourse .