“Oh, yes, I could.” The old man chuckled again. “I was in the Hall of Mirrors when you tore up that paper. After all of you were gone, before I put out the lights, I picked up the pieces and pasted them together. Nobody knows I have it but Vivienne.”
“Vivienne? How could she know anything about it, locked up at Salvanetra?”
“Yes, she was locked up,” mused the old man. “I don’t know how she got away, but she did.”
Pascal started to his feet. “Vivienne here? Where is she? Did you give her the food to take to Vandemar? I thought you were a friend to the Batistellis.”
“I didn’t mean to give it to her,” and Manassa wrung his hands, apologetically; “I didn’t mean to give it to him. I had opened the door, was telling him what nice things I had for him,—just to make him feel hungrier than ever,—when Vivienne came from behind one of the mirrors and caught at the basket. Just as I was getting it away from her, she drew a stiletto and stabbed me here,” and he placed his hand upon his wounded arm. “I fell, and before I could get up again, she had dragged the basket of food into the dungeon chamber.”
“What did you do then?” asked Pascal, excitedly.
“I did as I thought you would have done—I shut the door and left them there together. She is no longer a Batistelli—she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together!”
“You were right, Manassa. I should have done as you did. But where is the paper?”
“Here it is,” and Manassa passed it to him.
“Come with me, Manassa,” said Pascal. “She is my sister—a poor, weak, foolish woman. It is my duty to give her one more chance to repent of her folly, and I must have a witness.”