seven o'clock
I will let you go , I promise you I will , whenever the doctor says you are well enough to go and fight . '' The cold was intense on that December evening . Silvine and Prosper , together with little Charlot , were alone in the great kitchen of the farmhouse , she busy with her sewing , he whittling away at a whip that he proposed should be more than usually ornate . It was seven o'clock ; they had dined at six , not waiting for Father Fouchard , who they supposed had been detained at Raucourt , where there was a scarcity of meat , and Henriette , whose turn it was to watch that night at the hospital , had just left the house , after cautioning Silvine to be sure to replenish Jean 's stove with coal before she went to bed . Outside a sky of inky blackness overhung the white expanse of snow . No sound came from the village , buried among the drifts ; all that was to be heard in the kitchen was the scraping of Prosper 's knife as he fashioned elaborate rosettes and lozenges on the dogwood stock . Now and then he stopped and cast a glance at Charlot , whose flaxen head was nodding drowsily .