Eight o’clock
Two hours went by ; but the sentinels posted at intervals noticed nothing that led them to suppose the marquis had evaded the triple line of men who surrounded the three sides by which the tower of Papegaut was accessible . Twenty times had Corentin gone from the Promenade to the guard-room , always to find that his little emissary had not appeared . Sunk in thought , the spy paced the Promenade slowly , enduring the martyrdom to which three passions , terrible in their clashing , subject a man , -- love , avarice , and ambition . Eight o'clock struck from all the towers in the town . The moon rose late . Fog and darkness wrapped in impenetrable gloom the places where the drama planned by this man was coming to its climax . He was able to silence the struggle of his passions as he walked up and down , his arms crossed , and his eyes fixed on the windows which rose like the luminous eyes of a phantom above the rampart .