The raindrops fell densely on the cobblestones, making a slight sound.
In dark coats, tall top hats, each holding a black umbrella, Arthur and Louis were like two wild mushrooms growing on the streets of Paris.
The pipe in their hands emitted a faint scent of tobacco, intertwining with the fresh air in the rain. They walked and chatted, occasionally stopping to avoid the splashes from passing carriages.
Louis glanced at Arthur, who was wearing a trench coat, and the cold air after the rain made him breathe out a light puff of white air: "Arthur, you never told me you had connections with the Royalists."
Arthur showed no intention of apologizing; on the contrary, he responded quite candidly to Louis's doubt, removing his pipe and looking at the ripples blooming at the toes of passersby on the roadside: "Is it strange? I always thought you should understand what exactly I'm doing now: spying on secrets, creating conspiracies, inciting revolutions, and then profiting from them."
