The air smelled of La France roses and orange
blossoms, though I saw neither. Some pretty Austrian girls were
walking about in muslin frocks and gauzy hats, though by this time,
in England, women were putting on their fur boas in deference to
autumn; and a few days ago I had been lost in a snowstorm on a
middle-sized mountain of Savoie.
As I drew near to the big white Casino, strains of music came to me
from the terrace, and thinking that the Boy might be there listening
to the band, I went through the tunnel and came out on the beautiful
flower-decked plateau overhanging the sea. Out of season though it
was, a great many people were sitting there, drinking tea or coffee,
and listening to "La Paloma."
The windows of the Casino were open, protected by awnings; birds were
taking their last flight, before going to bed in some orange or lemon
tree. The place was more charming than in the high season; but the
face I looked for was not to be seen, and I deserted the Terrace for
the Rooms.
I had not been to "Monte" since the Boer war; and when I had gone
through the formalities at the Bureau, and entered the first _salle_,
it struck me strangely to find everything exactly as I had left it
years ago.
The same heavy stillness, emphasised by the continuous chink, chink of
gold and silver, and broken only by the announcement of events at
different tables: "_Onze, noir, impair et manque";--"Rien ne va
plus";--"Zero!_"
The same _onze_; the same _rien n'va plus_; the same _zero_ heralded
in the same secretly joyous, outwardly apologetic tone, by the
croupiers fortunate enough to produce it.
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