12 o’clock
It was now the month of April ; the weather was fine , the graves were not likely to look as sad and desolate as they do in winter ; in short , it was warm enough for the living to think a little of the dead , and pay them a visit . I went to the cemetery , saying to myself : `` One glance at Marguerite 's grave , and I shall know if Armand 's sorrow still exists , and perhaps I may find out what has become of him . '' I entered the keeper 's lodge , and asked him if on the 22nd of February a woman named Marguerite Gautier had not been buried in the Montmartre Cemetery . He turned over the pages of a big book in which those who enter this last resting-place are inscribed and numbered , and replied that on the 22nd of February , at 12 o'clock , a woman of that name had been buried . I asked him to show me the grave , for there is no finding one 's way without a guide in this city of the dead , which has its streets like a city of the living . The keeper called over a gardener , to whom he gave the necessary instructions ; the gardener interrupted him , saying : `` I know , I know . -- It is not difficult to find that grave , '' he added , turning to me .