He looked, too, for the return of Courtnay and
Madame de Belle-Ile; but the days passed and they did not return.
One morning he found himself in an unhappy mood. It seemed to him that
his wits had come to a standstill; for three days no new mischief had
come the way of his idle hands, and his regular, dally, mischievous
practices had grown so regular as almost to have acquired the
tastelessness of duties. The peculiar brightness and gaiety of Monte
Carlo life had begun to pall upon him. Loneliness was eating into his
soul; for of all the French boys who paraded the gardens of the Temple
of Fortune, he could make nothing. Their costumes, which were of
velvet and satin and lace, revolted him; their lack of spirit, their
distaste for violent movement, their joy in parading their revolting
costumes filled him with wondering contempt. As for the little French
girls, he was at any time uninterested in girls; and these
spindle-shanked precocities walked on two-inch heels, and tried to
fascinate him with the graces of mature coquettes. His careful
politeness was hard put to it to conceal his distaste for their
conversation. Possibly he was hankering after a healthier life; but at
any rate he, who was generally so full of energy, had mooned listlessly
about the gardens all the morning, with a far-away look in his eyes,
and the air of a strayed seraph.
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