A quarter to eleven
He was already raising his whip , when Abbe Mouret stopped him . ` Stay ! what o'clock do you make it , uncle ? ' ` A quarter to eleven . ' The Abbe hesitated ; he already seemed to hear La Teuse 's terrible voice bawling in his ears that his luncheon was getting cold . But he plucked up courage and added swiftly : ` I 'll go with you , uncle . The unhappy man may wish to reconcile himself to God in his last hour . '