... A couple of days later I went to Vallauris, climbed the overgrown slope to Picasso’s ugly little house, and found the family, including Paulo, the son of the artist’s first marriage, just finishing lunch at about half past two. I was aware that if one were to find them at home, this was the most likely hour. Picasso knew that I had been seeing Cocteau and soon inquired about him. “Not too dopey from smoking?” he sarcastically inquired. “Not to my knowledge,” I answered, reflecting that Picasso might have refrained from sarcasm, having been in his youth heavily addicted to the pipe. I said that Jean wanted to come and pay his old friend a visit and asked what day would be convenient. Any day would be convenient, Picasso replied, but there were days when he was absent, so callers had to take their chances. If I wanted to escort Cocteau to Vallauris, I should consult my lucky stars to find the right moment. This certainly did not constitute an invitation, even less a specific appointm…