At precisely eleven o'clock Napoleon rode to the left bank between columns of cheering troops. His entourage followed, a glittering group of lavishly decorated officers. The contrast between the victor's approach to the raft and the supplicant's struck Gabrielle as more than a little pointed.

This was a purely ceremonial meeting, one that would set the tone for the real negotiations. It was then that Talleyrand would come to the fore.

With the now-familiar wrenching ache, Gabrielle wondered where Nathaniel was. These negotiations were of vital interest to the English. Did he have an agent among the Russians? Or even among the French? She wondered if he had found a replacement for herself, perhaps not so closely attached to the imperial circle, but close enough to watch and listen.

Talleyrand had accepted her return and Nathaniel's departure without comment, and she had no idea whether he was pursuing an alternative method of influencing the English government's actions.

Fouche's rage at the escape of his quarry had resounded throughout the headquarters of the secret police. He had questioned Gabrielle many times, but Talleyrand had always been there, an urbane yet alert witness, and she'd managed, if not to fool the policeman, at least to give him no evidence on which he could act. She knew that one of his men followed her for several weeks after Nathaniel's escape, and she made no attempt to evade him, although she was skilled enough to do so if she'd wished. Monsieur Fouche received dull reports of the blameless and ordinary social life of a widow at the court of the Emperor Napoleon.

Now, as she watched from her window, both emperors from their own side of the river stepped simultaneously into boats, their staff falling in behind them, and teams of rowers bent to their oars, their white-shirted arms pumping in unison under the brilliant summer sun.

Napoleon, in the uniform of the Imperial Guard, the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor on his chest, his hat pulled low over his forehead, jumped lightly from the boat to the raft before Alexander had set foot on the structure. The czar, with his powdered hair, white knee britches, and the green tunic of the Preobrazhensky regiment, was a tali, elegant figure as he stepped onto the raft in his turn.

Gabrielle felt a strange little thrill at the ceremonious panoply despite her earlier remarks about the vulgarity of such a display of power. Tbe stocky little man held out his hand to his willowy counterpart, and the two men embraced.

Talleyrand, standing at Gabrielle's shoulder, pursed his lips at this open sign of friendship. He'd have his work cut out manipulating this burgeoning relationship to his own ends. But it could be done. His hand rested lightly on Gabrielle's shoulder, and she turned her head.

"You'd prefer there to be enmity between them, sir?"

"Make no mistake, machere, there will be… there will be."

There was no indication of such a future when Napoleon and Alexander reappeared from the pavilion arm in arm. Napoleon proposed that the town of Tilsit be declared neutral territory and divided into a French section and a Russian section so that the two courts could meet and mingle and entertain each other, and the serious negotiations, to be conducted on the French side by Talleyrand and on the Russian by Prince Lobanov and Prince Kurakin, could move ahead without a physical boundary separating the two parties.

It was done amid much ceremony and protestations of friendship. Talleyrand greeted his Russian counterparts with urbane courtesy, giving no indication of the contempt in which he held them, and informed Gabrielle that they would be hosting a reception the following evening for the Russian dignitaries.

Gabrielle spent an exhausting day trying to organize a reception that her godfather insisted should be as splendid as any offered in the emperor's accommodations. Since the emperor had his own gold dinner service and his own crystal as well as a traveling cellar and an army of chefs, she was at something of a disadvantage. However, by seven o'clock she had managed to assemble sufficient china, crystal, and silver to serve the fifty guests, and was not displeased with the bowls of caviar on ice, the silver salvers of lobsters, the delicate creamy salmon mousses shivering on Sevres platters, the oyster patties, and the crystal bowls of syllabub.

"A delicate theme," she informed Talleyrand as he paused in the dining room on his way to dress. "Pink and cream and very light. They will have dined heavily beforehand, so this should tempt the taste buds nicely. And since excellent champagne is one wine that seems in plentiful supply, we have the perfect match."

"Your mother had the same flair," Talleyrand observed, kissing her cheek. "In her wardrobe and in her decor, and she was a superb hostess. Society fought over her invitations."

Gabrielle's smile was sad. "I don't remember."

"By the time you were old enough to remember, ma chere,there wereno parties. Marie Antoinette had told the people to eat cake if they couldn't afford bread, and the Revolution was in full swing."

"I suppose so. I must go and dress. What time will the emperor make his appearance?"

"He and Alexander intend arriving together, a further show of amity," he said dryly. "When all the other guests are assembled, a messenger will run to alert their imperial majesties."

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At eleven o'clock the two salons were buzzing with officers in the uniforms of the most distinguished regiments of Russia and France. Their ladies glittered, plied fans vigorously in the overheated rooms, and cast sharp, assessing eyes at their counterparts' coiffures, gowns, and jewels.

Gabrielle moved easily through the throng. The Russians all spoke fluent French, so communication was natural enough. Talleyrand was an impeccable host, but Gabrielle noticed that, as always, he stood aside during conversations, rarely participating beyond making the original introductions or subtly suggesting a topic of conversation.

Wily old rogue, she thought with a surge of affection. He was a firm proponent of the principle that the more a man talked, the less he understood, and the less he was worth listening to.

The sound of running feet came from the hallway, and a messenger hurried into the room, making his way to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

Talleyrand nodded, excused himself, and gestured to Gabrielle. The whisper ran around the room: " Les empereurs arrivent." And the guests moved to either side of the double doors.

Gabrielle was known to Napoleon and had had many conversations with him, so she felt no excitement at making her curtsy to the great man. She was, however, very interested in meeting Czar Alexander.

Their imperial majesties strolled into the salon side by side and their various subjects made ritual obeisance.

Napoleon raised Gabrielle from her curtsy with a smile, and still holding her hand introduced her to Alexander. " Moncher ami, permit me to introduce the Comtesse de Beaucaire, our charming hostess."

Gabrielle curtsied again, murmuring the correct platitudes. As she raised her head, her eyes met those of a man standing some way behind the emperor in a small knot of courtiers in evening dress, who had accompanied Alexander and Napoleon.

The room spun; her stomach turned to water, her knees to jelly, her blood seemed to stop flowing. Nathaniel's cool brown gaze held hers with absolute command. If he was as numbed by seeing her as she was by seeing him, he wasn't showing it. And it would be death to show it.

The crisp dark hair with the silver swatches at his temples was now all silver, and he wore a small, neat beard that accentuated the leanness of his face, the angularity of his features. But no superficial changes could alter the magnetism that flowed from him, or disguise the lithe agility of the slender frame, or the power in the long, white hands-those long, slow, arousing hands.…