midnight
the iron gateway , between the stone columns , was spanned by a flaming arch built of massed stars ; and , following them cautiously beneath that arch , where were they , and where was I ? In a land of enchantment , a garden most gorgeous , a plain sprinkled with coloured meteors , a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and golden fire gemming the foliage ; a region , not of trees and shadow , but of strangest architectural wealth -- of altar and of temple , of pyramid , obelisk , and sphinx : incredible to say , the wonders and the symbols of Egypt teemed throughout the park of Villette . No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine -- the key of the mystery picked up , and its illusion unveiled -- no matter that I quickly recognised the material of these solemn fragments -- the timber , the paint , and the pasteboard -- these inevitable discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm , or undermine the marvel of that night . No matter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fête -- a fête of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted , though it had opened at dawn that morning , and was still in full vigour near midnight . In past days there had been , said history , an awful crisis in the fate of Labassecour , involving I know not what peril to the rights and liberties of her gallant citizens . Rumours of wars there had been , if not wars themselves ; a kind of struggling in the streets -- a bustle -- a running to and fro , some rearing of barricades , some burgher-rioting , some calling out of troops , much interchange of brickbats , and even a little of shot . Tradition held that patriots had fallen : in the old Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure , solemnly built in and set apart , holding , it was said , the sacred bones of martyrs .