But it was no longer easy to obtain the services of the old spy. Since he had received the price of Lacheneur’s blood—the twenty thousand francs which had so fascinated him—Chupin had deserted the house of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
He had taken up his quarters in a small inn on the outskirts of the town; and he spent his days alone in a large room on the second floor.
At night he barricaded the doors, and drank, drank, drank; and until daybreak they could hear him cursing and singing or struggling against imaginary enemies.
Still he dared not disobey the order brought by a soldier, summoning him to the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once.
“I wish to discover what has become of Baron d’Escorval,” said Martial.
Chupin trembled, he who had formerly been bronze, and a fleeting color dyed his cheeks.
“The Montaignac police are at your disposal,” he answered sulkily. “They, perhaps, can satisfy the curiosity of Monsieur le Marquis. I do not belong to the police.”
Was he in earnest, or was he endeavoring to augment the value of his services by refusing them? Martial inclined to the latter opinion.
“You shall have no reason to complain of my generosity,” said he. “I will pay you well.”
But on hearing the word “pay,” which would have made his eyes gleam with delight a week before, Chupin flew into a furious passion.