Thursday afternoon, about three o'clock
The slumber for which Mora begged so persistently , the lethargy , to speak more accurately , lasted a whole night and morning , with partial awakenings caused by excruciating pain which yielded each time to soporifics . They did nothing for him except to try to make his last moments comfortable , to help him over that last step which it requires such a painful effort to pass . His eyes had opened during that time , but they were already dim , staring into emptiness at wavering shadows , indistinct forms , like those which a diver sees quivering in the vague depths of the water . On Thursday afternoon , about three o'clock , he recovered consciousness completely , and , recognizing Monpavon , Cardailhac and two or three other close friends , smiled at them and betrayed in a word his sole preoccupation : `` What do people say of this in Paris ? '' People said many things , diverse and contradictory ; but one thing was certain , that they talked of nothing else , and the report which had been circulated through the city that morning , that Mora was at death 's door , had put the streets , the salons , the cafés , the studios in a ferment , revived political questions in the newspaper offices , in the clubs , and even in porters ' lodges and on the omnibuses , wherever open newspapers furnished a pretext for comment on that startling item of news . This Mora was the most brilliant incarnation of the Empire . The part of a building that we see from afar is not its foundation , be it solid or tottering , not its architectural features , but the slender , gilded arrow , fancifully carved and perforated , added for the gratification of the eye .