At once the instinct of the informer, of the sleuthhound, was on the qui vive. The coalheaver's words, the expression of cunning on his ugly face, the cringing obsequiousness of his attitude, all suggested the spirit of intrigue, of underhand dealing, of lies and denunciations, which were as the breath of life to this master-spy. He retraced his steps, came and sat upon a pile of rubbish beside the barrel, and when Rateau, terrified apparently at what he had said, made a motion as if to slink away, Chauvelin called him back peremptorily.
"What is it, citizen Rateau," he said curtly, "that you could tell me, and that I would like to know?"
Rateau was cowering in the darkness, trying to efface his huge bulk and to smother his rasping cough.
"You have said too much already," Chauvelin went on harshly, "to hold your tongue. And you have nothing to fear . . . everything to gain. What is it?"
For a moment Rateau leaned forward, struck the ground with his fist.
"Am I to be paid this time?" he asked.
"If you speak the truth—yes."
"How much?"
"That depends on what you tell me. And now, if you hold your tongue, I shall call to the citizen Captain upstairs and send you to jail."
The coalheaver appeared to crouch yet further into himself. He looked like a huge, shapeless mass in the gloom. His huge yellow teeth could be heard chattering.