Above the door was a wisp of red wool, which he knew for the Guise colours.

Inside he looked to find a crowd, but there was but one other guest.

Paris that night had business, it seemed, which did not lie in the taverns.
That other guest was a man as big as himself, clad wholly in black, save for a stiff cambric ruff worn rather fuller than the fashion.

He was heavily booted, and sat sideways on a settle with his left hand tucked in his belt and a great right elbow on the board.

Something in his pose, half rustic, half braggart, seemed familiar to Gaspard.