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As soon as Leopold saw his friend out of danger, he set out for France with a power of attorney, and Rodolphe could thus remain at Gersau, the only place in the world where his grief could grow calmer. The young Frenchman's position, his despair, the circumstances which made such a loss worse for him than for any other man, were known, and secured him the pity and interest of every one in Gersau.
And as soon as she had got rid of Charles she went and shut herself up in her room. At first she felt stunned; she saw the trees, the paths, the ditches, Rodolphe, and she again felt the pressure of his arm, while the leaves rustled and the reeds whistled. But when she saw herself in the glass she wondered at her face. Never had her eyes been so large, so black, of so profound a depth.
"Good!" said Rodolphe to himself, "she is not startled by hearing me speak her name; she had, no doubt, foreseen that I should ask Gina she is so cunning. What is your quarrel with me?" he went on, going at last to sit down by her side, and asking her by a gesture to give him her hand, which she withdrew. "You are cold and ceremonious; what, in colloquial language, we should call short."
Rodolphe, who had managed the fatality, thought the remark very offhand from a man in his position, comic even, and a little mean. The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour.
Emma raised the latch of a door, and suddenly at the end of the room she saw a man sleeping. It was Rodolphe. She uttered a cry. "You here? You here?" he repeated. "How did you manage to come? Ah! your dress is damp." "I love you," she answered, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Then, as the candles dazzled him, he turned to the wall and fell asleep. She escaped, smiling, palpitating, undressed. "Rodolphe had a large cloak; he wrapped her in it, and putting his arm around her waist, he drew her without a word to the end of the garden." "It was in the arbour, on the same seat of old sticks where formerly Léon had looked at her so amorously on the summer evenings.
"Is it this Rodolphe affair that has unsettled you? Because surely it would be wiser to wait and see what is going to happen before you take any decided step of this sort." "Ah! It is not that!" Bertrand spoke with a vehemence that sounded almost passionate. "It is nothing to me this affair. It interests me not that!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously. "No, no! The time for that is past.
At last, bored and weary, Rodolphe took back the box to the cupboard, saying to himself, "What a lot of rubbish!" Which summed up his opinion; for pleasures, like schoolboys in a school courtyard, had so trampled upon his heart that no green thing grew there, and that which passed through it, more heedless than children, did not even, like them, leave a name carved upon the wall.
But had I known that Rodolphe would use his knowledge to extort money from her, I would not have yielded no, not one inch to her importunity. I did not know it. Christine was afraid of me also. I had fought one duel for her; perhaps she dreaded another. And so the mischief was done." "And who told you that she had been blackmailed?" Mordaunt demanded curtly.
To his very matter-of-fact and much annoyed antagonist, Karl Marx, he was little more than a buffoon, the "amorphous pan-destroyer, who has succeeded in uniting in one person Rodolphe, Monte Cristo, Karl Moor, and Robert Macaire."
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