midnight
The letter-carrier has brought me no letter . I am seated at the window of the _ salon _ , gasping in these simmering dog-days for a breath of fresh air ; such a cool , balmy breeze as blows over the summer sea to the cliffs of Sark . Monsieur Laurentie , under the shelter of a huge red umbrella , is choosing the ripest cluster of grapes for our supper this evening . All the street is as still as at midnight . Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh , metallic clang of well-shod horse-hoofs upon the stony roadway -- the cracking of a postilion 's whip -- the clatter of an approaching carriage . It proves to be a carriage with a pair of horses . Pierre , who has been basking idly under the window , jumps to his feet , shouting , `` It is Monsieur the Bishop ! ''