ten o’clock
They publish bulletins of my illness in every paper , letters of sympathy come to me by post from my colleagues , my pupils , the general public ; but all that does not prevent me from dying in a strange bed , in misery , in utter loneliness . Of course , no one is to blame for that ; but I in my foolishness dislike my popularity . I feel as though it had cheated me . At ten o'clock I fall asleep , and in spite of the tic I sleep soundly , and should have gone on sleeping if I had not been awakened . Soon after one came a sudden knock at the door . `` Who is there ? '' `` A telegram . ''