Cauchon has brought a wood stool he can sit on. He’s wearing the tight-fitting white pants of a gentleman, and a split-tail coat and a vest with the shine and coloration of a bleeding pomegranate. I do not know if he realizes his name is pronounced the same as “pig” in French. His face is swollen and lopsided like soft fruit, or maybe he has been bitten by blowflies. He coughs on his hand, but he cain’t hide the smell of his breath. He must have slept all night with his head in a beer bucket.
