eleven
o'clock
And she was , indeed , the rose of the divine garden , whose deeds shed perfume , the rose who beholds all the other flowers of grace and salvation spring into being around her . Pierre had reached this point of his story , and was again enumerating the miracles , on the point of recounting the prodigious triumph of the Grotto , when Sister Hyacinthe , awaking with a start from the ecstasy into which the narrative had plunged her , hastily rose to her feet . `` Really , really , '' said she , `` there is no sense in it . It will soon be eleven o'clock . '' This was true . They had left Morceux behind them , and would now soon be at Mont de Marsan . So Sister Hyacinthe clapped her hands once more , and added : `` Silence , my children , silence ! ''