This meeting of Sarah Bernhardt, then the greatest feminine personality in Europe, and Damala, who was to be the central figure of the most tragic episode of her life, will remain in my memory for ever.
They were introduced by a mutual friend.
“Damala?” said Sarah, raising her eyebrows, and affecting an ignorance of his name which was in the circumstances really insulting.
“Bernhardt?” replied Damala, in similar accents.
It was flint on stone.
“Sir!” exclaimed the dismayed hostess, “you are addressing the greatest actress in France!”
“And I,” said Damala, in a sceptically belittling manner, “am therefore the greatest man in France!”
Bernhardt shrugged her shoulders at this insolence.
“You do not interest me, monsieur!” she said, turning away.
“Wait,” said Damala, “you have not heard all. I am also the wickedest man in Paris.”