midnight
At my writing table sat Gaston Cheverny , writing , his tears dropping upon the paper . I believe everybody in Paris wept when Adrienne Lecouvreur died . `` I am writing an account for Mademoiselle Capello , '' he said ; then laid down his pen , when he saw by my face what had happened . Four days later Adrienne Lecouvreur was buried at midnight . I was among the few at her interment . Monsieur Voltaire managed it all , with a delicacy , a tenderness inexpressible . Those who say that man could not love , knew not the nobility of his love for Adrienne Lecouvreur .