Her aunt was also sleeping from sheer exhaustion. Guy was the only one who till the small hours of the night was pacing his room in the farm. But strangely enough his thoughts were not centred upon his stepmother nor upon her business affairs, but wholly and entirely upon Adrienne. CHAPTER VIII LITTLE AGATHA ADRIENNE was taking a walk through the village. Guy had gone to Paris for a few days on business. The Countess was in the deepest depths of despondency. Adrienne found it quite impossible to cheer her up; she refused to leave her room, said she was ill, and her favourite doctor was in attendance upon her. Adrienne had interviewed him before she started for her walk. "No, Mademoiselle," he assured her in fluent French; "there is nothing serious in your aunt's indisposition, except that at no time is her heart very strong, and she seems to be agitating herself unnecessarily over trifles; her mind is acting upon her body, and she cannot sleep. I have given her a sedative, and told her to rest for a few days, and then you will see her up and about again." So Adrienne, feeling that she herself needed both air and exercise, had come away from the Château. The fresh breeze blowing down from the hills fanned her cheeks, and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She began going over in her mind the events of the last few days. Guy had come to wish his aunt good-bye before he departed for Paris. She had alluded again to the old watch. "Can't you get it back for me?" she had asked Guy fretfully, and he had made answer: "Ma mère, it is easy to throw pebbles into the sea; it is difficult to fish them up again. I would suggest that you throw away no more pebbles." Then fixing her with his eye almost sternly, he had said: "You have lost a good many things out of the Château. And it is your own concern; but you have lost more than you have gained. There is one heirloom that I must beg you do not meddle with. And that is Van Dyck's portrait of my great-grandfather. That belongs to me, as you know. I have an affection for it, and I will not have it grace the salon walls in Monsieur Bouverie's house!" "You are very unkind," the Countess had sobbed, and she had parted with her stepson in an injured state of mind. He had hardly left the village before the little notary arrived for a "business interview." This had been a very long one, and so far, Adrienne had not been given any particulars of what had transpired in it. The Countess had taken to her bed immediately afterwards, and though Adrienne had waited upon her most assiduously, she would no longer confide in her; only lay in bed propped up on satin cushions in the daintiest of boudoir caps and tea jackets, declaring that life was over for her, and that death would be welcome at any moment.