Nine o’clock
It was the fault of Coqueville , he promised to shake up those do-nothings well . But , in the meantime , he was approaching . All at once , in the turning at the last rock , he saw the twenty houses of the village hanging to the flank of the cliff . Nine o'clock struck . One would have believed it June , so blue and warm was the sky ; a superb season , limpid air , gilded by the dust of the sun , refreshed by the good smell of the sea . M. Mouchel entered the only street of the village , where he came very often ; and as he passed before Rouget 's house , he went in . The house was empty .