about nine o'clock at night
Everything wore its most cheerless aspect . Not only were the trees leafless and bare , the roads broken up and fissured with streams of water , but the neglected look of the château itself bespoke the sad and gloomy , season . The closed shutters , the closely barred doors , the statues covered up with mats to protect them from the weather , the conservatories despoiled of all their gay habitants , betrayed that the time was passed when in the warm air of sunset happy groups wandered hither and thither , inhaling the rich odors of the flowers and gazing on the brilliant landscape . It was about nine o'clock at night . The storm that usually began each evening at the same hour was already stirring in fitful gusts among the bare branches of the trees , or sending a sudden plash of rain against the windows , when , as I drew closer to ray fire , and was preparing to enjoy myself for the evening over my book , I heard the regular tramping sound of a cavalry horse approaching along the terrace ; the jingle of the accoutrements was a noise I could not mistake . I arose , but before I reached the door I heard a deep voice call out , -- `` The Sous-Lieutenant Burke ; a despatch from Paris . '' I took the paper , which was sealed and folded in the most formal manner , and returning to the room , opened it .