nine o'clock
The streets seemed like tunnels and the tunnels like streets . We came into the dingy station and a score of women porters and red capped girls came for our baggage . They ran the trucks , they moved the express ; they took care of the mail , and through them we edged up the stairway into the half-lighted station and looked out into the night -- black , lampless , engulfing -- and it was Paris ! It was nine o'clock as we stood on the threshold of the station peering into the murk . Not a taxi was in the stand waiting ; but from afar we could hear a great honking of auto-horns , that sounded like the night calls of monster birds flitting over the city . The air was vibrant with these wild calls . We were an hour waiting there in the gloom for a conveyance .