nine o'clock
On the morning following the night , of first adventure Max woke in his odd , mountainous bed at the Hôtel Railleux kindling to fresh and definite sensations . In a manner miraculously swift , miraculously smooth and subtle , he had discovered a niche in this strange city , and had elected to fit himself to it . A knowledge of present , a pledge of future interests seemed to permeate the atmosphere , and he rose and dressed with the grave deliberation of the being who sees his way clear before him . It was nine o'clock when he entered the _ salle-à-manger _ , and one sharp glance brought the satisfying conviction that it was deserted save for the presence of the assiduous young waiter , who came hurrying forward as though no span of hours and incidents separated yesterday 's meal from to-day 's . His attentive attitude was unrelaxed , his smile was as deferential as before , but this morning he found a less responsive guest . Max was filled with a quiet assurance that debarred familiarity ; Max , in fine , was bound upon a quest , and the submissive young waiter , the bare eating-room , Paris itself , formed but the setting and background in his arrogant young mind to the greatness of the mission . The thought -- the small seed of thought that was responsible for the idea had been sown last night , as he leaned over the parapet fronting the Sacré-Coeur , looking down upon the city with its tangle of lights ; and later , in the hours of darkness , when he had tossed on his heavy bed , too excited to lure sleep , it had fructified with strange rapidity , growing and blossoming with morning into definite resolve .