Combined with my own crosschecks carried out in the Phone directory’s pages, the journalists' indiscretions that magazines distilled finally disclosed the details of where Mr. and Mrs. Sanson lived in Paris. I could then find out about their address.

With the beautiful unconsciousness of my late Teens, and armed with my courage -but also and mainly, my "Elton John portfolio" under my arm-, I took the lift of this chic Paris’ 16th District building, and rang the bell of the fifth-floor apartment that the concierge had mentioned to me. A lady opened the door. I knew right away whom I was facing. It could only be Mrs. Sanson as the resemblance to her daughter was striking.

More blushing than a peony (on this point I had already experienced the baptism of fire with my endless wait at Elton John’s gate in Virginia Water and the arrival of Tony King ...), I explained to the lady who was facing me what I was doing there. She looked at me more or less bemused, but yet with an amused and caring glow in her eyes, as I could witness.
I ended up leaving with her (although dropping half of it on her door mat meanwhile), the documentation that I had brought with me. Mrs. Sanson was kind enough to take these documents, noting my phone number and telling me that she would speak to her daughter about my work. Some time later, having received no news, I finally called Mrs. Sanson (she had confirmed the phone number that I had found in the phone book). Very kindly, she invited me to drop by her place again.

A series of interviews hence began with Mrs Sanson, of which I have still very fond memories.
Véronique Sanson’s mother did absolutely everything she could to help me produce artwork for her daughter.  Even though those efforts did not equate to any success in the end, I am still grateful to this day for her help, her extreme kindness and her benevolence towards the approach of someone who, after all, was no less than a total stranger to her.