'She is going,' thought Pierre, and (as he said in giving me the account) his heart gave a spring, to think that he should never see her again.

If either his mother or his cousin had been more kind to him, he might have endeavoured to intercept her; but as it was, he held his breath, and when she came out he pretended to read, scarcely knowing whether he wished her to succeed in the purpose which he was almost sure she entertained, or not.

She stopped by him, and passed her hand over his hair.

He told me that his eyes filled with tears at this caress.
Then she stood for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame Babette, and stooped down and softly kissed her on the forehead.

Pierre dreaded lest his mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy must have been quite on Virginie's side), but the brandy she had drunk made her slumber heavily.