about four o’clock
He insisted on beholding it when the sun was rising and transpiercing the morning mists , when the Quai de l'Horloge flushes and the Quai des Orfevres remains wrapt in gloom ; when , up in the pink sky , it is already full of life , with the bright awakening of its towers and spires , while night , similar to a falling cloak , slides slowly from its lower buildings . He beheld it also at noon , when the sunrays fall on it vertically , when a crude glare bites into it , and it becomes discoloured and mute like a dead city , retaining nought but the life of heat , the quiver that darts over its distant housetops . He beheld it , moreover , beneath the setting sun , surrendering itself to the night which was slowly rising from the river , with the salient edges of its buildings still fringed with a glow as of embers , and with final conflagrations rekindling in its windows , from whose panes leapt tongue-like flashes . But in presence of those twenty different aspects of the Cite , no matter what the hour or the weather might be , he ever came back to the Cite that he had seen the first time , at about four o'clock one fine September afternoon , a Cite all serenity under a gentle breeze , a Cite which typified the heart of Paris beating in the limpid atmosphere , and seemingly enlarged by the vast stretch of sky which a flight of cloudlets crossed . Claude spent his time under the Pont des Saints-Peres , which he had made his shelter , his home , his roof . The constant din of the vehicles overhead , similar to the distant rumbling of thunder , no longer disturbed him . Settling himself against the first abutment , beneath the huge iron arches , he took sketches and painted studies .