I am photographed many times and I sit in a daze through most of it, at one time going back stage, though I don't know why, except that I was photoed back there too.
The picture was shown, but I did not see much of it. There was too much to be seen in that audience.
At the end of the picture there came a messenger from the Minister:
"Would I come to his box and be decorated?" I almost fell out of my box.
I grew sick. What would I say? There was no chance to prepare. I had visions of the all-night preparation for my speech in Southampton. This would be infinitely worse. I couldn't even think clearly. Why do I pick out stunts like that? I might have known that something would happen.
But the floor would not open up for me to sink through and there was no one in this friendly audience who could help in my dilemma, and the messenger was waiting politely, though I imagined just a bit impatiently, so, summoning what courage I had, I went to the box with about the same feeling as a man approaching the guillotine.
I am presented to everybody. He makes a speech. It is translated for me, but very badly. While he was speaking I tried to think of something neat and appropriate, but all my thoughts seemed trite. I finally realised that he was finished and I merely said "Merci," which, after all, was about as good as I could have done.
And believe me, I meant "Merci" both in French and in English.
But the applause is continuing. I must say something, so I stand up in the box and make a speech about the motion-picture industry and tell them that it is a privilege for us to make a presentation for such a cause as that of devastated France.
Somehow they liked it, or made me believe they did. There was a tremendous demonstration and several bearded men kissed me before I could get out. But I was blocked in and the crowd wouldn't leave. At last the lights were turned out, but still they lingered. Then there came an old watchman who said he could take us through an unknown passage that led to the street.