Twenty-five minutes to seven
Confound those Montmartre playwrights ! Why was their stupid travesty constantly recurring to his mind ? He frowned again , this time at Auguste Comte 's smugness , and looked at his watch . Twenty-five minutes to seven ! It was too late now to do other than write -- if he succeeded . If not -- ah , well ! `` Some of them are slain in the flower of their youth . ''