eleven o'clock
Vanderlyn started walking up the platform , and for awhile he kept in step with the slowly gliding carriages ; then they swept by more quickly , a swift procession of gleaming lights ... . As at last the red disc melted into the night , he gave a muffled groan of anguish , for mingling with his sense of intense relief , came that of eternal , irreparable loss . Ironic fortune was kind to Vanderlyn that night ; his return ticket from far-away Orange , though only issued in Paris some two hours before , was allowed to pass unchallenged ; and a couple of francs bestowed on a communicative employé drew the welcome news that a southern express bound for Paris was about to stop at Dorgival . It was only eleven o'clock when Vanderlyn found himself once more in the Gare de Lyon . He walked quickly out of the great station which was henceforth to hold for him such intimately tender and poignant memories ; and then , instead of taking a cab , he made his way on foot down to the lonely Seine-side quays . There , leaning over and staring down into the swift black waters of the river , he planned out his drab immediate future . In one sense the way was clear before him , -- he must of course go on exactly as before ; show himself , that is , in his usual haunts ; take the moderate part he had hitherto taken in what he felt to be the dreary round of so-called pleasures with which Paris was now seething .