He went with us to the theatre every time we played, that was three times a week, and we took our meals together. During the three months in which we were in Jamaica, I never took the trouble to find out his name. As a general principle I am always less concerned with my friends’ names than with my friends themselves. After Jamaica we returned to New York and I hardly ever thought of Kingston again. Two years later, when I was dancing at the Folies-Bergère, an elegant gentleman, accompanied by a friend, asked for an interview. He turned out to be our Jamaica companion and his friend the Minister of Finance of Haiti. In the meantime he had learned English and was able to tell me that the period at which we had seen him at Kingston was only a few months after the breaking out of a revolution in Haiti. Our friend’s father, one of the leading bankers of the island, had been assassinated, and he himself had been obliged to escape in a small boat. He had been rescued at sea and brought to Kingston. All the while he was in Jamaica he had been trying to communicate with his friends, by way of New York, and he had not been able to learn whether his mother, his brothers, and his sisters were dead or alive. A short time after our departure he got into communication with his family and discovered that affairs were beginning to improve. He returned home and found everybody safe and sound, except, of course, his unfortunate father. After having told me this story, which explained his sadness at the time of our first meeting, he asked me: “How can I be of service to you? You seem to have everything that success can bring, but there is one thing I can do, and one which, I am sure, will give you great pleasure. I can present you to my old friend, Alexandre Dumas,” he added, with a pretty smile. “Really,” I said, overcome with joy. “Are you really willing to introduce me to the author of _La Dame aux Camélias_?” “Yes, indeed,” he replied. That was worth a dozen visits to Jamaica, and I thanked him effusively. A few days later he came to take me to Marly, where the great writer lived. During the journey in the railway carriage M. Poulle taught me a French phrase, which I was to say when Dumas extended his hand: “Je suis très contente de serrer votre main” (“I am delighted to grasp your hand”). And of course, when the psychological moment arrived, I phrased the words all askew. Instead of taking one of his hands I grasped both and emphatically and with stress on each word, I said: “Je suis très contente de votre main serrée” (“I am delighted with your close-fisted hand”). I did not understand his reply, but my friend later on told me that Dumas had replied: “My hand is not close-fisted, but I know what you mean, child. My friend Poulle has related to me his experiences in Jamaica, and I open my heart and my hand in your service.” The gesture he made is the only thing which I remember, for all the rest was Greek to me.