seven o’clock
`` Coachman , Rue St. Louis au Marais . '' `` Papa , has Aunt Ursula needles in her chin ? '' Let us pass over the eleven duty calls , they are no more agreeable to write of than to make . Toward seven o'clock , heaven be praised , the horses stop before my father 's , where dinner awaits us . Baby claps his hands , and smiles at old Jeannette , who , at the sound of the wheels , has rushed to the door . `` Here they are , '' she exclaims , and she carries off Baby to the kitchen , where my mother , with her sleeves turned up , is giving the finishing touch to her traditional plum cake . My father , on his way to the cellar , lantern in hand , and escorted by his old servant , Jean , who is carrying the basket , halts .