the hour of nine
`` I 'll give it to him myself , '' she said ; `` he will come . '' The next morning , at the open window , and humming on his balcony , Leon himself varnished his pumps with several coatings . He put on white trousers , fine socks , a green coat , emptied all the scent he had into his handkerchief , then having had his hair curled , he uncurled it again , in order to give it a more natural elegance . `` It is still too early , '' he thought , looking at the hairdresser 's cuckoo-clock , that pointed to the hour of nine . He read an old fashion journal , went out , smoked a cigar , walked up three streets , thought it was time , and went slowly towards the porch of Notre Dame . It was a beautiful summer morning . Silver plate sparkled in the jeweller 's windows , and the light falling obliquely on the cathedral made mirrors of the corners of the grey stones ; a flock of birds fluttered in the grey sky round the trefoil bell-turrets ; the square , resounding with cries , was fragrant with the flowers that bordered its pavement , roses , jasmines , pinks , narcissi , and tube-roses , unevenly spaced out between moist grasses , catmint , and chickweed for the birds ; the fountains gurgled in the centre , and under large umbrellas , amidst melons , piled up in heaps , flower-women , bare-headed , were twisting paper round bunches of violets .