nine o'clock
For the first time he was viewing Paris bereft of the glamour of romance ; for the first time the Masque of Folly passed before him , licentious and unashamed . Many an hour , in days gone by , he had discussed with Blake this lighter side of many-sided Paris , and with Blake 's wise and penetrating gaze he had seen it in true perspective ; but to-night there was no sane interpreter to temper vision , to-night he was bitterly alone , and his mind , from long austerity , long concentration upon work , had swung with grievous suddenness to the opposing pole of thought . He had no purpose in his descent from the rue Müller , he had no desire of vice as an antidote to pain , but his loathing of Paris was drawing him to her with that morbid craving to hurt and rehurt his bruised soul that assails the artist in times of misery . The streets were quiet , for it was scarcely nine o'clock , and as yet the lethargy of the day lay heavy on the air . The heat and the accompanying laxity breathed an atmosphere of its own ; every window of every house gaped , and behind the casements one caught visions of men and women negligent of attire and heedless of observation . Romance was dead ! Of that supreme fact Max was very sure .