about eleven o'clock in the morning
... '' Then he smiled , and turning to the waiter who had just come in , he said : `` Meanwhile , open us another bottle of champagne , and make the cork pop ! It will , at any rate , somewhat accustom us to the day when we shall all be blown up with dynamite ourselves . '' Every Friday , regularly , at about eleven o'clock in the morning , he came into the courtyard , put down his soft hat at his feet , struck a few chords on his guitar and then began a ballad in his full , rich voice . And soon at every window in the four sides of that dull , barrack-like building , some girls appeared , one in an elegant dressing gown , another in a little jacket , most of them with their breasts and arms bare , all of them just out of bed , with their hair hastily twisted up , their eyes blinking in the sudden blaze of sunlight , their complexions dull and their eyes still heavy from want of sleep . They swayed themselves backwards and forwards to his slow melody , and gave themselves up to the enjoyment of it , and coppers , and even silver , poured into the handsome singer 's hat , and more than one of them would have liked to have followed the penny which she threw to him , and to have gone with the singer who had the voice of a siren , and who seemed to say to all these amorous girls ; `` Come , come to my retreat , where you will find a palace of crystal and gold , and wreaths which are always fresh , and happiness and love which never die . '' That was what they seemed to hear , those unhappy girls , when they heard him sing the songs of the old legends , which they had formerly believed .