"Charlot!"
Our greeting is most effusive. And then something goes wrong. He is talking in French, a blue streak, with the rapidity of a machine-gun. I can feel my smile fading into blankness. Then I get an inspiration. I start talking in English just as rapidly. Then we both talk at once. It's the old story of the irresistible force and the immovable body. We get nowhere.
Then I try talking slowly, extremely slow.
"Do—you—understand?"
It means nothing. We both realise at the same time what a hopeless thing our interview is. We are sad a bit, then we smile at the absurdity of it.
He is still Cami and I am still Charlot, so we grin and have a good time, anyhow.
He stays to dinner, which is a hectic meal, for through it all I am tasting this Paris, this Paris that is waiting for me. We go out and to the Folies Bergère. Paris does not seem as light as I expected it to be.
And the Folies Bergère seems shabbier. I remember having played here once myself with a pantomime act. How grand it looked then. Rather antiquated now. Somehow it saddened me, this bit of memory that was chased up before me.
Next day there is a luncheon with Dudley Field Malone and Waldo Frank. It is a brisk and vivacious meal except when it is broken up by a visit from the American newspaper correspondents.
"Mr. Chaplin, why did you come to Europe?"