ten o’clock in the morning
``' Tis well done , '' said Robin Poussepain , who cherished a grudge against Quasimodo . `` That will teach him to handle people roughly . '' The reader must permit us to take him back to the Place de Grève , which we quitted yesterday with Gringoire , in order to follow la Esmeralda . It is ten o'clock in the morning ; everything is indicative of the day after a festival . The pavement is covered with rubbish ; ribbons , rags , feathers from tufts of plumes , drops of wax from the torches , crumbs of the public feast . A goodly number of _ bourgeois _ are `` sauntering , '' as we say , here and there , turning over with their feet the extinct brands of the bonfire , going into raptures in front of the Pillar House , over the memory of the fine hangings of the day before , and to-day staring at the nails that secured them a last pleasure . The venders of cider and beer are rolling their barrels among the groups .