“You sound to me,” replied Sarah, “a fool, and the poorest boaster I have ever met!” And she left him.
He laughed, and the laughter reached her. It struck straight at her most vulnerable trait—her vanity.
A man had laughed at Sarah Bernhardt! More, he was laughing still! It was incredible!
Yet it was so, and the memory of that laugh, and of the passage of arms which had preceded it, lingered with her. She was piqued. For the first time in her experience she had met a man who would not humble himself before her.
Sarah was now negotiating for the purchase of the Porte St. Martin theatre, which she proposed to place under the direction of her young son, Maurice Bernhardt. In this capacity, as a possible purchaser, she came face to face with Damala, who had been waiting for her in the theatre.
Sarah would have swept by him, but he stepped in front.
“I have brought you a present!” he said, and held out a bouquet of beautiful lilies-of-the-valley—for it was Springtime, the fête of muguet. This flower is supposed in France to be a symbol of good fortune, and many a forlorn lover makes up a quarrel with his sweetheart, on the first of May, by presenting her with a tiny bundle of muguet.
Sarah looked at him, astonished. Here was a new Damala!
But the Greek quickly disillusioned her.
“I give it to you,” he said, “because you will need it—with me!”