one o'clock
The quiet simplicity of the room , the blue tints on the hangings , furniture , and carpet , served at this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness of cloudland . Facing the windows , and within sweep of the shadow , loomed the velvet-curtained bed , a black mass , relieved only by the white of the sheets . With hands crossed on her bosom , and breathing lightly , lay Helene , asleep -- mother and widow alike personified by the quiet unrestraint of her attitude . In the midst of the silence one o'clock chimed from the timepiece . The noises of the neighborhood had died away ; the dull , distant roar of the city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero heights . Helene 's breathing , so light and gentle , did not ruffle the chaste repose of her bosom . She was in a beauteous sleep , peaceful yet sound , her profile perfect , her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot , and her head leaning forward somewhat , as though she had fallen asleep while eagerly listening .