eight o'clock
No , surely that man was no vile knave , but a poor deluded mortal whose fortune had gone to his head , like a wine too powerful for a stomach that has long slaked its thirst with water . Alone in the midst of Paris , surrounded by enemies and sharpers , Jansoulet reminded him of a pedestrian laden with gold passing through a wood haunted by thieves , in the dark and unarmed . And he thought that it would be well for the protégé to watch over the patron without seeming to do so , to be the clear-sighted Telemachus of that blind Mentor , to point out the pitfalls to him , to defend him against the brigands , in short to assist him to fight in that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt to be lurking savagely about the Nabob and his millions . Every morning in the year , at precisely eight o'clock , a new and almost uninhabited house in an out-of-the-way quarter of Paris was filled with shouts and cries and happy laughter that rang clear as crystal in the desert of the hall . `` Father , do n't forget my music . '' `` Father , my embroidery cotton . '' `` Father , bring us some rolls . ''