Card games were underway in dark corners, some boisterous and contentious, others silent and intense. The gleam of dice flashed in other shadowy nooks, and throughout the premises, painted denizens of the demimonde circled for prey, their shopworn charms lavishly exposed in cheap satins and grimy lace. The noisy clink of tankards and glasses provided a background for their peregrinations, as waiters scurried to ply their already sodden patrons with various potent beverages. The clientele of the Gold Pig was a mixed lot. The nobility of several countries rubbed shoulders with the dregs of Parisian society, for the establishments of the Palais Royale catered to all, the only requirement being a taste for the sordid and the money to pay for it. Thus, the gentleman who entered at that moment seemed oddly out of place. He was tall and slender and impeccably garbed in correct evening wear, but it was not his appearance that set him apart from those already availing themselves of the Gold Pig’s dubious hospitality.
