We craved the sacrilegious contact. This universe in gestation still lacked substance. In the Sainte-Chapelle it was the rough grain of an old parchment that aroused the same desire – Charlotte taught us that these long handwritten letters had been penned a millennium ago by a French queen, a Russian woman furthermore, Anna Yaroslavna, wife of Henri I.

But what was most exciting was that Atlantis was being built before our very eyes. Nicholas grasped a golden trowel and spread mortar on a great block of granite – the first stone of the Pont Alexandre-Ill… And he held out the trowel to Félix Faure – "Your turn, Monsieur le Président!" - and the racing wind, which was whiffing up white horses on the waters of the Seine, carried away the words forcefully uttered by the minister of trade as he battled against the flapping of the flags: "Sire! It was France 's wish to dedicate one of the great monuments of her capital to the memory of your august father. In the name of the government of the Republic I ask Your Imperial Majesty to graciously consecrate this homage by joining the President of the Republic in cementing the first stone of the Pont Alexandre-III, which will link Paris to the Exhibition of 1900 – and thus to extend to our inauguration of this great enterprise of civilization and peace the lofty approbation of Your Majesty and the gracious patronage of the Empress."

The president barely had time to give two symbolic taps to the granite block before an incredible incident occurred. A fellow who belonged neither to the imperial entourage nor to the party of French dignitaries rose up before the imperial couple, addressed the tsar with the familiar tu, and with an extraordinary urbane dexterity, kissed the tsarina's hand! Petrified by such cavalier behavior, we held our breath…

Little by little it became evident what was happening. The words of the intruder, overcoming the distance in time and gaps in our French, were clarified. Feverishly we caught their echo: