seven o'clock
Whilst Sister Hyacinthe was again wiping the cold sweat from his brow , he raised his eyelids , and a smile momentarily brightened his pallid countenance . Yet once again he , also , had hoped . Marie was still holding Pierre 's fingers in her own small , warm hand . It was seven o'clock , they were not due at Bordeaux till half-past seven ; and the belated train was quickening its pace yet more and more , rushing along with wild speed in order to make up for the minutes it had lost . The storm had ended by coming down , and now a gentle light of infinite purity fell from the vast clear heavens . `` Oh ! how beautiful it is , Pierre -- how beautiful it is ! ''