five
o'clock
`` Mademoiselle Chouteau , '' I said , `` may I have the pleasure of walking home with you ? '' But all the way up the Rue de l'Église and down the steep incline of the Rue Bonhomme , and up the Rue Royale to the great barred gate that led into the stone-walled inclosure of Pierre Chouteau , while Mademoiselle Chouteau , with her nimble tongue , was flitting from one bit of village gossip to another , like a butterfly among the flowers , I was saying bitterly to myself : `` And she had even the discourtesy to walk away without waiting to see whether the guest of her house was going home or not . '' It was a long mile and a half from Pierre Chouteau 's house to Dr. Saugrain 's , and it was a frosty December evening . It was only five o'clock , but the stars were out , and through the leafless trees I could see lights twinkling from the houses as I passed . Faster and faster I walked , as my thoughts grew more and more bitter toward mademoiselle , and by the time I had reached the cheery living-room , with its blazing lightwood fire , I was in such a glow from exercise and indignation as made the fire all unwelcome . I had quite made up my mind , on my long walk , that mademoiselle should find me as cool as herself ; and through the evening meal I scarce looked at her . But if I had fancied mademoiselle suffering from some secret trouble , I changed my mind at supper .