eleven o'clock
There I walked , and there , when certain that the whole household were abed , and quite out of hearing -- there , I at last wept . Reliant on Night , confiding in Solitude , I kept my tears sealed , my sobs chained , no longer ; they heaved my heart ; they tore their way . In this house , what grief could be sacred ? Soon after eleven o'clock -- a very late hour in the Rue Fossette -- the door unclosed , quietly but not stealthily ; a lamp 's flame invaded the moonlight ; Madame Beck entered , with the same composed air , as if coming on an ordinary occasion , at an ordinary season . Instead of at once addressing me , she went to her desk , took her keys , and seemed to seek something : she loitered over this feigned search long , too long . She was calm , too calm ; my mood scarce endured the pretence ; driven beyond common range , two hours since I had left behind me wonted respects and fears . Led by a touch , and ruled by a word , under usual circumstances , no yoke could now be borne -- no curb obeyed .