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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:
    Illustrious Emperor, Alexander’s heir,
    France welcomes thee, on this occasion fair.
    In tongue of gods she bids me greetings bring;
    Poets alone may thus address a King.
    We uttered a “phew” of relief. The insolent braggart was none other than a poet, whose name Charlotte told us was José Maria de Heredia!
    And you, Madame, who on this happy day
    Alone a peerless loveliness display,
    Let me, through you, bestow an accolade
    On grace divine, of which your own is made!
    The cadence of the verses intoxicated us. To our ears the resonance of the rhymes celebrated extraordinary marriages between words that were far apart: “stream-dream,” “gold-untold.” … We sensed that only such verbal artifices could express the exotic nature of our French Atlantis:
    Behold the city! Fervent acclamation
    From flag-decked Paris soars in celebration,
    Where both in palace and in humble street
    The three brave colors of our two lands meet …
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    â€™Neath golden poplars, all along her banks
    The Seine conveys a joyful people’s thanks.
    Affection follows where our eyes may see:
    France greets her guests with all her energy!
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    Great works of peace are put in hand today:
    This mighty arch will rise to lead the way
    From this age into that which onward lies,
    Linking two peoples and two centuries.
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    From this historic shore e’er each departs
    May French hearts find response in both your hearts.
    Before this bridge, sire, dream, and meditate,
    Which to thy father France doth consecrate.
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    Like him, be strong: but merciful thy word;
    Keep in its sheath thy battle-glorious sword;
    Warrior at peace, bring peace to thine own land.
    Tsar, let the spinning world turn in thy hand.
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    And like thy sire, keep earth in balance still:
    Thy powerful arm sustain thy tireless will;
    This honor is thy greatest legacy:
    To win the love of a people that is free.
    â€œTo win the love of a people that is free”: this line, which had initially passed almost unnoticed in the melodious flow of the verses, struck home. The, a free people … Now we understood why the poet had dared to offer advice to the master of the most powerful empire on earth. And why to be loved by these free citizens was such an honor. On that evening, in the overheated air of the nocturnal steppes, this freedom seemed to us like a harsh and chilly gust from the wind that had made waves on the Seine, and it filled our lungs with a breeze that was