midnight
There was a short struggle , and then Cocardasse flung the dead body of Peyrolles at the feet of Lagardere . Lagardere bent over him and spoke his epitaph : `` The last of the lackeys . Now for the master . '' Paris lay quiet enough between the midnight and the dawn . All the noise and brilliance and turbulence , all the gayety and folly and fancy of the royal ball had died away and left the Palais Royal and the capital to peace . Little waves of frivolity had drifted this way and that from the ebbing sea to the haven of this great house and that great house , where certain of those that had made merry in the king 's gardens now made merrier still at a supper as of the gods . The Palace of Gonzague was one of those great houses .