twelve o’clock
DESTINY had willed that Loisillon , fortunate always , should be fortunate in dying at the right moment . A week later , when houses were closed , society broken up , the Chamber and the Institute not sitting , his funeral train would have been composed of Academicians attentive to their tallies , followed only by deputies from the numerous societies of which he was Secretary or President . But business-like to the last and after , he went off to the moment , just before the Grand Prix , choosing a week entirely blank , when , as there was no crime , or duel , or interesting lawsuit , or political event , the sensational obsequies of the Permanent Secretary would be the only pastime of the town . The funeral mass was to be at twelve o'clock , and long before that hour an immense crowd was gathering round St. Germain des Prés . The traffic was stopped , and no carriages but those of persons invited were allowed to pass within the rails , strictly kept by a line of policemen posted at intervals . Who Loisillon was , what he had done in his seventy years ' sojourn among mankind , what was the meaning of the capital letter embroidered in silver on the funeral drapery , was known to but few in the crowd . The one thing which struck them was the arrangement of the protecting line , and the large space left to the dead , distance , room , and emptiness being the constant symbols of respect and grandeur .