about seven o’clock
When night falls the Aire Saint-Mittre loses its animation , and looks like some great black hole . At the far end one may just espy the dying embers of the gipsies ' fires , and at times shadows slink noiselessly into the dense darkness . The place becomes quite sinister , particularly in winter time . One Sunday evening , at about seven o'clock , a young man stepped lightly from the Impasse Saint-Mittre , and , closely skirting the walls , took his way among the timber in the wood-yard . It was in the early part of December , 1851 . The weather was dry and cold . The full moon shone with that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons .