The Count made the gesture of a man pulling his hat down over his brow, and went on: 

“I think to myself:  he is sad; something is wrong with him; young men have their troubles.  I take no notice of him, of course.  I pay for my lemonade, and go away.”

Strolling about in the neighbourhood of the band, the Count thinks he saw twice that young man wandering alone in the crowd.  Once their eyes met.  It must have been the same young man, but there were so many there of that type that he could not be certain.  Moreover, he was not very much concerned except in so far that he had been struck by the marked, peevish discontent of that face.

Presently, tired of the feeling of confinement one experiences in a crowd, the Count edged away from the band.  An alley, very sombre by contrast, presented itself invitingly with its promise of solitude and coolness.  He entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of the orchestra became distinctly deadened.  Then he walked back and turned about once more.  He did this several times before he noticed that there was somebody occupying one of the benches.

The spot being midway between two lamp-posts the light was faint.

The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, his legs stretched out, his arms folded and his head drooping on his breast.  He never stirred, as though he had fallen asleep there, but when the Count passed by next time he had changed his attitude.  He sat leaning forward.  His elbows were propped on his knees, and his hands were rolling a cigarette.  He never looked up from that occupation.

The Count continued his stroll away from the band.  He returned slowly, he said.  I can imagine him enjoying to the full, but with his usual tranquillity, the balminess of this southern night and the sounds of music softened delightfully by the distance.

Presently, he approached for the third time the man on the garden seat, still leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.  It was a dejected pose.  In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his cuffs made small patches of vivid whiteness.  The Count said that he had noticed him getting up brusquely as if to walk away, but almost before he was aware of it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone whether the signore would have the kindness to oblige him with a light.

The Count answered this request by a polite “Certainly,” and dropped his hands with the intention of exploring both pockets of his trousers for the matches.

“I dropped my hands,” he said, “but I never put them in my pockets.  I felt a pressure there—­”

He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his breastbone, the very spot of the human body where a Japanese gentleman begins the operations of the Harakiri, which is a form of suicide following upon dishonour, upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one’s feelings.

“I glance down,” the Count continued in an awestruck voice, “and what do I see?  A knife!  A long knife—­”