“No matter, it was the same person, I am sure of it,” said M. Goefle. “His name was Taddeo Manasses. Stenson told me so yesterday. This is the only time, in the course of the correspondence, that he signed either of his names in full, and it was perhaps the last time that the poor wretch ever dipped his pen into ink; for, according to Massarelli, he is dead, and I will stake my life upon it that Massarelli assassinated him. Stay, don’t speak, Christian! On informing Stenson of his death, Massarelli claimed to be in possession of a terrible secret, which he wanted to sell him, and threatened, if he would not come to terms, to carry it to the baron—the proof, no doubt. Was this poor Jew addicted to drinking?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Well, then, Guido must have assassinated him, for the sake of the little money he had in his possession. He found, no doubt, some letter from Stenson on his person, and learning from that of his whereabouts, came here at once to turn the adventure to account—Besides, this Massarelli may have given the Jew some narcotic when they dined together at the inn. But no, since it was after that that the Jew wrote—but in the evening, or the next day.”
“Alas! what does it matter, Monsieur Goefle? It is quite plain that Massarelli discovered the secret, whatever it may be, and has revealed it to the baron; but, as for me, I have not discovered anything as yet about myself, except that M. Stenson is interested in me, and that Manasses, or Taddeo, was his confidant, and has faithfully transmitted to him news about me, and finally, that my existence is very disagreeable to Baron Olaus. Who am I then, in the name of Heaven? Do not make me languish any longer, Monsieur Goefle.”
“Ah, patience, patience, my friend!” replied the lawyer, as he sought a hiding-place for his precious letters; “I cannot tell you yet. I have been certain of the truth for the last twenty-four hours, as far as instinct and reason can make me so; but I must have proofs, and these are not enough. I must get hold of them—where? how? Let me reflect—if I can! for there is enough here to drive one crazy. Papers to hide—Stenson in danger—and we too, perhaps! However—oh, yes! this is the point, Christian: I want to be certain that it is you they have designs against, for then I shall know positively who you are.”
“It is easy to find out whether the baron’s intentions are what you suppose. I will go over to the chateau to give my performance as if nothing were the matter, and if I am attacked, as I am so well armed to-day, I will try and make my adversaries confess.”
“I really believe,” said M. Goefle, who had finally succeeded in hiding the letters, “that it would be preferable to run the risk of a fight on the open lake than to wait here until they run us down in this gloomy old den. It is already nine o’clock, and we were to have been at the chateau at eight. Yet they have not sent to know why we are so late. That is singular! Stay, Christian! Is your gun loaded? Take it; for my part, I will take my sword. I am neither a Hercules nor a bully; but I understood fencing in my youth, like all students, and if we are waylaid and attacked by ruffians, I don’t intend to let them slaughter me like a calf. Promise me, swear to me, to be prudent. That is all I ask.”
“I give you my word that I will,” replied Christian. “Come!”
“But that troublesome brat, who has fallen asleep playing, what shall we do with him?”
“Put him to bed, Monsieur Goefle; I don’t suppose they have any designs on him.”