the men indoors sit on stools, intoxicated in licensed premises, putting glasses of stout into the interior of their bodies and expressing by fine disputation by their physical and mental states. only a dark figure never joins the merriment, and in his thigh pocket eleven and eightfrancs in weighty pendulum of wealth in coins. each of them he tosses over the course of the hour to the serving boys, increasing the quality of the stout. the volume rises, and he gets the information he wants. it is business, and these days, there are more polite ways to take it than torture.
the count is aware that the girls watch him. there have not been many as handsome as rich was he, and outside in the cold that did not bother him, overlooking the broken tops of buildings, he gazes on the horizon of the settling dusk. as someone bumps into him, he seems to catch her without delay, just a gloved hand around a forearm that cages her to him if she should draw back. the blues of his eyes sink to her, unsympathetic, and he pries for an apology from the bone picks of her chest.
‘ what horse is this? thankfully, you do not weigh like one. ‘
