eight o'clock
And now to-day it seemed that the climax had been reached . Seated idly before his canvas , the whole procession of his Paris life unwound before him -- from the first tumultuous hour , when he had entered the Hôtel Railleux on fire for freedom , to this moment when , with dull resentful eyes , he confronted the sum of his labors -- an unfinished , sorry study devoid of inspiration . He stared at the flat canvas -- the rough outline of his picture -- the reckless splashing on of color ; and , abruptly , as if a hand had touched him , he sprang to his feet , making havoc among the paint tubes that strewed the floor , and turned summarily to the open window . It was after eight o'clock , but the hazy , unreal daylight of a summer evening made all things visible . He scanned the plantation , viewing it as if in some travesty of morning ; he looked down upon the city , sleeping uneasily in preparation for the inevitable night of pleasure , and a sudden loathing of Paris shook him . It seemed as if some gauzy illusive garment had been lifted from a fair body and that his eyes , made free of the white limbs , had discerned a corpse . By a natural flight of ideas , the loathing of the city turned to loathing of himself -- to an unsatiable desire for self-forgetfulness , for self-effacement .