the hour of
seven
True , he had already come to the Jumping-off Place ; to the Court of the Last Resort alone could he now appeal . But ... not yet ; after a while he could make his petition , after he had made a familiar of the thought that he must armor himself with callous indifference to rebuff , to say naught of the waves of burning shame that would overwhelm him when he came to the point of asking charity . He found himself , neither knowing nor caring how he had won thither , in the Place Verte , the vast venerable pile of the Cathedral rising on his right , hotels and quaint Old-World dwellings with peaked roofs and gables and dormer windows , inclosing the other sides of the square . The chimes -LRB- he could hear none but those of the Cathedral -RRB- were heralding the hour of seven . Listless and preoccupied in contemplation of his wretched case he wandered purposelessly half round the square , then dropped into a bench on its outskirts . It was some time later that he noticed , with a casual , indifferent eye , a porter running out of the Hôtel de Flandre , directly opposite , and calling a fiacre in to the carriage block . As languidly he watched a woman , very becomingly dressed , follow the porter down to the curb .