seven o'clock
Eugénie watched , holding her breath . Slowly the light died ; the marble withdrew into the dark ; and Louis Seize was once more with the ghosts . Eugénie 's fancy pursued him . She thought of the night of the 20th of January , 1793 , when Madame Royale , in the darkness of the Temple , heard her mother turning miserably on her bed , sleepless with grief and cold , waiting for that last rendezvous of seven o'clock which the King had promised her -- waiting -- waiting -- till the great bell of Notre Dame told her that Louis had passed to another meeting , more urgent , more peremptory still . ` Oh , poor soul ! -- poor soul ! ' she said , aloud , pressing her hands on her eyes .