eight o’clock
THAT morning , one towards the end of January , Abbe Pierre Froment , who had a mass to say at the Sacred Heart at Montmartre , was on the height , in front of the basilica , already at eight o'clock . And before going in he gazed for a moment upon the immensity of Paris spread out below him . After two months of bitter cold , ice and snow , the city was steeped in a mournful , quivering thaw . From the far-spreading , leaden-hued heavens a thick mist fell like a mourning shroud .