five o'clock
If you have ever been in Bourges , you may have seen the little Rue Sous - les-Ceps , the Cours du Bat d'Argent and de la Fleur-de-lys , the Rues de la Merede-Dieu , des Verts-Galants , Mausecret , du Moulin-le-Roi , the Quai Messire-Jacques , and other streets whose ancient names , preserved by a praiseworthy sentiment or instinctive conservatism , betoken an ancient city still inhabited by old-fashioned people , by which I mean people attached to the soil , strongly marked with the stamp of the provincial in manners as in language ; people who understand all that a name is to a street -- its honor , its spouse if you will , from which it must not be divorced . My Uncle Mouillard , most devoted and faithful citizen of Bourges , naturally lives in one of these old streets , the Rue du Four , within the shadow of the cathedral , beneath the swing of its chimes . Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at Bourges I was pulling the deer 's foot which hangs , depilated with long use , beside his door . It was five o'clock , and I knew for certain that he would not be at home . When the courts rise , one of the clerks carries back his papers to the office , while he moves slowly off , his coat-tails flapping in the breeze , either to visit a few friends and clients , respectable dames who were his partners in the dance in the year 1840 , or more often to take a `` constitutional '' along the banks of the Berry Canal , where , in the poplar shade , files of little gray donkeys are towing string after string of big barges . So I was sure not to meet him . Madeleine opened the door to me , and started as if shot .