about five o'clock
`` Does Madame wish the carriage ? '' `` No . '' And she left the house . It was about five o'clock . At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was passing through the iron gateway of the Corps Législatif , his mother on his arm ; but , painful as was the drama that was being enacted there , this one far surpassed it in that respect , being more sudden , more unforeseen , devoid of the slightest solemnity , one of the private domestic dramas which Paris improvises every hour in the day ; and it may be that that gives to the air we breathe in Paris that vibrating , quivering quality which excites the nerves . The weather was superb . The streets in those wealthy quarters , as broad and straight as avenues , shone resplendent in the light , which was already beginning to fade , enlivened by open windows , by flower-laden balconies , by glimpses of verdure toward the boulevards , light and tremulous between the harsh , rigid lines of stone .