Very tall, with a somewhat dreamy look, he would survey you for a long time, whilst deep in his eyes there gleamed a light of profound and intelligent good will.
His hands, well modelled and large, were very handsome, and he had an almost feminine love of being well groomed.
At breakfast one morning some one asked me if I was very fond of M. Dumas, and I replied in French, which I still understood only imperfectly: “I am very fond of her.”
Dumas, convulsed with laughter, said something that I did not get, but which was translated for me thus:
“He says that he has been taken for a whole lot of things, but never before for a woman.”
Dumas smiled again and kissed my hand, a circumstance that I have always remembered.
Another time we were at Marly-le-Roi and the Count Primoli took a number of photographs of us and of the garden, in which only a single yellow rose was left.
Dumas picked this flower and gave it to me.
“My dear sir,” I said, “it is the last one in the garden. You ought not to give it to me.”
M. Poulle, who served as translator, rendered this reply: