But what was really fine and a sight I shall never forget, was our landing at Folkestone. There were thousands of people there, and it was the first time I had ever heard the cry of “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!” I turned my head and saw before me a pale young man, the ideal face of _Hamlet_. He presented me with a gardenia. I was destined to admire him later on as _Hamlet_. He was Forbes-Robertson. We passed on through a crowd offering us flowers and shaking hands, and I soon saw that I was more favored than the others. This slightly embarrassed me, but I was delighted all the same. One of my comrades, who was just near, and with whom I was not a favorite, said to me, in a spiteful tone: “They’ll make you a carpet of flowers soon.” “Here is one!” exclaimed a young man, throwing an armful of lilies on the ground in front of me. I stopped short, rather confused, not daring to walk on these white flowers, but the crowd pressing on behind compelled me to advance, and the poor lilies had to be trodden under foot. “Hip, hip, hurrah! a cheer for Sarah Bernhardt!” shouted the turbulent young man. His head was above all the other heads, he had luminous eyes and long hair, and looked like a German student. He was an English poet, though, and one of the greatest of this century, a poet who was a genius, but who was, alas! tortured and finally vanquished by madness. It was Oscar Wilde. The crowd responded to his appeal, and we reached our train amid shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah, for Sarah Bernhardt! Hip, hip, hurrah, for the French _artistes_!” When the train arrived at Charing Cross toward nine o’clock, we were nearly an hour late. A feeling of sadness came over me. The weather was gloomy, and then, too, I thought we should have been greeted again upon our arrival in London with more “hurrahs!...” There were plenty of people, crowds of people, but none appeared to know us. On reaching the station I had noticed that there was a handsome carpet laid down and I thought it was for us. Oh, I was prepared for anything, as our reception at Folkestone had turned my head. The carpet, however, had been laid down for their Royal Highnesses the Prince and the Princess of Wales, who had just left for Paris. This news disappointed me and even annoyed me personally. I had been told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely indifferent. The crowd was large and very compact, but cold. “Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer. “Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,” he replied. “Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued. “No, the Prince has taken a box for the season for which he has paid four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.” I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I felt that everything was going wrong.