the hour of
eleven
Opposite flashed the white mass of the Etablissement des Bains . There was the old Roman Arch of Titus , gray and venerable . There were the trees of the gardens in riotous greenery . There on the right marking the hour of eleven on its black face was the clock of the Comptoir National . It was Aix ; familiar Aix ; not a land of dreams . And there coming rapidly across from the Comptoir National was the well knit figure of the young man from Atlanta . '' _ Nom de Dieu _ , '' murmured Aristide . ''