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"Who does not dare, does not gain." I said turning on my side and hoping to go back to sleep. But as the train resumed its rhythmic movement, it seemed to me that I was back in the berth of the ship and I was gripped by sadness and nostalgia for what I had left.

Only eight days earlier we had boarded the Liberte, accompanied on board by Charles Scribner, who had even let us find a bouquet of flowers in the cabin. We had watched the skyscrapers of New York become smaller and smaller, the Statue of Liberty gave us the last farewell with the torch raised, the earth slowly disappeared swallowed by the sea... but I would have returned, I had to return to that so vast, so beautiful, so solid, fascinating land called America.

But at the moment America was moving away, all around there was only the sea. I then focused my attention on the ship, the size of a city inhabited by people of all races. I had inspected every hidden corner of the area I was allowed, that is, the tourist class, and with the help of an understanding non-commissioned officer I was able to browse in first class.

From first class one day I got an invitation from a certain Ludwig Bemelmans for a "candlelit lunch." Aside from the fact that we'd have to get our evening dresses out of the bottom of the trunk, the first-class vibe was too staid for me, I told my mother. And she said she didn't care at all about going to lunch with a stranger. We therefore declined the invitation.

The next day Bemelmans sent another note. He was asking permission to join us for breakfast. And to better introduce himself, he added a self-portrait of himself. Not tall, plump, a little bald, dressed like an ancient Roman on a pile of books, holding a fountain pen in one hand and a dripping brush in the other, the caricature was so witty that refusal was impossible.

So Bemelmans went down to tourist class and immediately said...