CHAPTER 12
Robert Langdon felt light-headed as he trudged
toward the end of the Grand Gallery.
Sophie's phone message played over and over
in his mind.
At the end of the corridor, illuminated signs
bearing the international stick-figure symbols
for rest rooms guided him through a maze-like
series of dividers displaying Italian drawings
and hiding the rest rooms from sight.
Finding the men's room door, Langdon entered
and turned on the lights.
The room was empty.
Walking to the sink, he splashed cold water
on his face and tried to wake up.
Harsh fluorescent lights glared off the stark
tile, and the room smelled of ammonia.
As he toweled off, the rest room's door creaked
open behind him.
He spun.
Sophie Neveu entered, her green eyes flashing
fear.
"Thank God you came.
We don't have much time."
Langdon stood beside the sinks, staring in
bewilderment at DCPJ cryptographer Sophie
Neveu.
Only minutes ago, Langdon had listened to
her phone message, thinking the newly arrived
cryptographer must be insane.
And yet, the more he listened, the more he
sensed Sophie Neveu was speaking in earnest.
Do not react to this message.
Just listen calmly.
You are in danger right now.
Follow my directions very closely.
Filled with uncertainty, Langdon had decided
to do exactly as Sophie advised.
He told Fache that the phone message was regarding
an injured friend back home.
Then he had asked to use the rest room at
the end of the Grand Gallery.
Sophie stood before him now, still catching
her breath after doubling back to the rest
room.
In the fluorescent lights, Langdon was surprised
to see that her strong air actually radiated
from unexpectedly soft features.
Only her gaze was sharp, and the juxtaposition
conjured images of a multilayered Renoir portrait...
veiled but distinct, with a boldness that
somehow retained its shroud of mystery.
"I wanted to warn you, Mr. Langdon..."
Sophie began, still catching her breath, "that
you are sous surveillance cachée.
Under a guarded observation."
As she spoke, her accented English resonated
off the tile walls, giving her voice a hollow
quality.
"But... why?"
Langdon demanded.
Sophie had already given him an explanation
on the phone, but he wanted to hear it from
her lips.
"Because," she said, stepping toward him,
"Fache's primary suspect in this murder is
you."
Langdon was braced for the words, and yet
they still sounded utterly ridiculous.
According to Sophie, Langdon had been called
to the Louvre tonight not as a symbologist
but rather as a suspect and was currently
the unwitting target of one of DCPJ's favorite
interrogation methods—surveillance cachée—a
deft deception in which the police calmly
invited a suspect to a crime scene and interviewed
him in hopes he would get nervous and mistakenly
incriminate himself.
"Look in your jacket's left pocket," Sophie
said.
"You'll find proof they are watching you."
Langdon felt his apprehension rising.
Look in my pocket?
It sounded like some kind of cheap magic trick.
"Just look."
Bewildered, Langdon reached his hand into
his tweed jacket's left pocket—one he never
used.
Feeling around inside, he found nothing.
What the devil did you expect?
He began wondering if Sophie might just be
insane after all.
Then his fingers brushed something unexpected.
Small and hard.
Pinching the tiny object between his fingers,
Langdon pulled it out and stared in astonishment.
It was a metallic, button-shaped disk, about
the size of a watch battery.
He had never seen it before.
"What the...?"
"GPS tracking dot," Sophie said.
"Continuously transmits its location to a
Global Positioning System satellite that DCPJ
can monitor.
We use them to monitor people's locations.
It's accurate within two feet anywhere on
the globe.
They have you on an electronic leash.
The agent who picked you up at the hotel slipped
it inside your pocket before you left your
room."
Langdon flashed back to the hotel room...
his quick shower, getting dressed, the DCPJ
agent politely holding out Langdon's tweed
coat as they left the room.
It's cool outside, Mr. Langdon, the agent
had said.
Spring in Paris is not all your song boasts.
Langdon had thanked him and donned the jacket.
Sophie's olive gaze was keen.
"I didn't tell you about the tracking dot
earlier because I didn't want you checking
your pocket in front of Fache.
He can't know you've found it."
Langdon had no idea how to respond.
"They tagged you with GPS because they thought
you might run."
She paused.
"In fact, they hoped you would run; it would
make their case stronger."
"Why would I run!"
Langdon demanded.
"I'm innocent!"
"Fache feels otherwise."
Angrily, Langdon stalked toward the trash
receptacle to dispose of the tracking dot.
"No!"
Sophie grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"Leave it in your pocket.
If you throw it out, the signal will stop
moving, and they'll know you found the dot.
The only reason Fache left you alone is because
he can monitor where you are.
If he thinks you've discovered what he's doing..."
Sophie did not finish the thought.
Instead, she pried the metallic disk from
Langdon's hand and slid it back into the pocket
of his tweed coat.
"The dot stays with you.
At least for the moment."
Langdon felt lost.
"How the hell could Fache actually believe
I killed Jacques Saunière!"
"He has some fairly persuasive reasons to
suspect you."
Sophie's expression was grim.
"There is a piece of evidence here that you
have not yet seen.
Fache has kept it carefully hidden from you."
Langdon could only stare.
"Do you recall the three lines of text that
Saunière wrote on the floor?"
Langdon nodded.
The numbers and words were imprinted on Langdon's
mind.
Sophie's voice dropped to a whisper now.
"Unfortunately, what you saw was not the entire
message.
There was a fourth line that Fache photographed
and then wiped clean before you arrived."
Although Langdon knew the soluble ink of a
watermark stylus could easily be wiped away,
he could not imagine why Fache would erase
evidence.
"The last line of the message," Sophie said,
"was something Fache did not want you to know
about."
She paused.
"At least not until he was done with you."
Sophie produced a computer printout of a photo
from her sweater pocket and began unfolding
it.
"Fache uploaded images of the crime scene
to the Cryptology Department earlier tonight
in hopes we could figure out what Saunière's
message was trying to say.
This is a photo of the complete message."
She handed the page to Langdon.
Bewildered, Langdon looked at the image.
The close-up photo revealed the glowing message
on the parquet floor.
The final line hit Langdon like a kick in
the gut.
13-3-2-21-1-1-8-5 O, Draconian devil!
Oh, lame saint!
P.S.
Find Robert Langdon
CHAPTER 13
For several seconds, Langdon stared in wonder
at the photograph of Saunière's postscript.
P.S.
Find Robert Langdon.
He felt as if the floor were tilting beneath
his feet.
Saunière left a postscript with my name on
it?
In his wildest dreams, Langdon could not fathom
why.
"Now do you understand," Sophie said, her
eyes urgent, "why Fache ordered you here tonight,
and why you are his primary suspect?"
The only thing Langdon understood at the moment
was why Fache had looked so smug when Langdon
suggested Saunière would have accused his
killer by name.
Find Robert Langdon.
"Why would Saunière write this?"
Langdon demanded, his confusion now giving
way to anger.
"Why would I want to kill Jacques Saunière?"
"Fache has yet to uncover a motive, but he
has been recording his entire conversation
with you tonight in hopes you might reveal
one."
Langdon opened his mouth, but still no words
came.
"He's fitted with a miniature microphone,"
Sophie explained.
"It's connected to a transmitter in his pocket
that radios the signal back to the command
post."
"This is impossible," Langdon stammered.
"I have an alibi.
I went directly back to my hotel after my
lecture.
You can ask the hotel desk."
"Fache already did.
His report shows you retrieving your room
key from the concierge at about ten-thirty.
Unfortunately, the time of the murder was
closer to eleven.
You easily could have left your hotel room
unseen."
"This is insanity!
Fache has no evidence!"
Sophie's eyes widened as if to say: No evidence?
"Mr. Langdon, your name is written on the
floor beside the body, and Saunière's date
book says you were with him at approximately
the time of the murder."
She paused.
"Fache has more than enough evidence to take
you into custody for questioning."
Langdon suddenly sensed that he needed a lawyer.
"I didn't do this."
Sophie sighed.
"This is not American television, Mr. Langdon.
In France, the laws protect the police, not
criminals.
Unfortunately, in this case, there is also
the media consideration.
Jacques Saunière was a very prominent and
well-loved figure in Paris, and his murder
will be news in the morning.
Fache will be under immediate pressure to
make a statement, and he looks a lot better
having a suspect in custody already.
Whether or not you are guilty, you most certainly
will be held by DCPJ until they can figure
out what really happened."
Langdon felt like a caged animal.
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because, Mr. Langdon, I believe you are innocent."
Sophie looked away for a moment and then back
into his eyes.
"And also because it is partially my fault
that you're in trouble."
"I'm sorry?
It's your fault Saunière is trying to frame
me?"
"Saunière wasn't trying to frame you.
It was a mistake.
That message on the floor was meant for me."
Langdon needed a minute to process that one.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That message wasn't for the police.
He wrote it for me.
I think he was forced to do everything in
such a hurry that he just didn't realize how
it would look to the police."
She paused.
"The numbered code is meaningless.
Saunière wrote it to make sure the investigation
included cryptographers, ensuring that I would
know as soon as possible what had happened
to him."
Langdon felt himself losing touch fast.
Whether or not Sophie Neveu had lost her mind
was at this point up for grabs, but at least
Langdon now understood why she was trying
to help him.
P.S.
Find Robert Langdon.
She apparently believed the curator had left
her a cryptic postscript telling her to find
Langdon.
"But why do you think his message was for
you?"
"The Vitruvian Man," she said flatly.
"That particular sketch has always been my
favorite Da Vinci work.
Tonight he used it to catch my attention."
"Hold on.
You're saying the curator knew your favorite
piece of art?"
She nodded.
"I'm sorry.
This is all coming out of order.
Jacques Saunière and I..."
Sophie's voice caught, and Langdon heard a
sudden melancholy there, a painful past, simmering
just below the surface.
Sophie and Jacques Saunière apparently had
some kind of special relationship.
Langdon studied the beautiful young woman
before him, well aware that aging men in France
often took young mistresses.
Even so, Sophie Neveu as a "kept woman" somehow
didn't seem to fit.
"We had a falling-out ten years ago," Sophie
said, her voice a whisper now.
"We've barely spoken since.
Tonight, when Crypto got the call that he
had been murdered, and I saw the images of
his body and text on the floor, I realized
he was trying to send me a message."
"Because of The Vitruvian Man?"
"Yes.
And the letters P.S."
"Post Script?"
She shook her head.
"P.S. are my initials."
"But your name is Sophie Neveu."
She looked away.
"P.S. is the nickname he called me when I
lived with him."
She blushed.
"It stood for Princesse Sophie"
Langdon had no response.
"Silly, I know," she said.
"But it was years ago.
When I was a little girl."
"You knew him when you were a little girl?"
"Quite well," she said, her eyes welling now
with emotion.
"Jacques Saunière was my grandfather."
CHAPTER 14
"Where's Langdon?"
Fache demanded, exhaling the last of a cigarette
as he paced back into the command post.
"Still in the men's room, sir."
Lieutenant Collet had been expecting the question.
Fache grumbled, "Taking his time, I see."
The captain eyed the GPS dot over Collet's
shoulder, and Collet could almost hear the
wheels turning.
Fache was fighting the urge to go check on
Langdon.
Ideally, the subject of an observation was
allowed the most time and freedom possible,
lulling him into a false sense of security.
Langdon needed to return of his own volition.
Still, it had been almost ten minutes.
Too long.
"Any chance Langdon is onto us?"
Fache asked.
Collet shook his head.
"We're still seeing small movements inside
the men's room, so the GPS dot is obviously
still on him.
Perhaps he feels ill?
If he had found the dot, he would have removed
it and tried to run."
Fache checked his watch.
"Fine."
Still Fache seemed preoccupied.
All evening, Collet had sensed an atypical
intensity in his captain.
Usually detached and cool under pressure,
Fache tonight seemed emotionally engaged,
as if this were somehow a personal matter
for him.
Not surprising, Collet thought.
Fache needs this arrest desperately.
Recently the Board of Ministers and the media
had become more openly critical of Fache's
aggressive tactics, his clashes with powerful
foreign embassies, and his gross overbudgeting
on new technologies.
Tonight, a high-tech, high-profile arrest
of an American would go a long way to silence
Fache's critics, helping him secure the job
a few more years until he could retire with
the lucrative pension.
God knows he needs the pension, Collet thought.
Fache's zeal for technology had hurt him both
professionally and personally.
Fache was rumored to have invested his entire
savings in the technology craze a few years
back and lost his shirt.
And Fache is a man who wears only the finest
shirts.
Tonight, there was still plenty of time.
Sophie Neveu's odd interruption, though unfortunate,
had been only a minor wrinkle.
She was gone now, and Fache still had cards
to play.
He had yet to inform Langdon that his name
had been scrawled on the floor by the victim.
P.S.
Find Robert Langdon.
The American's reaction to that little bit
of evidence would be telling indeed.
"Captain?" one of the DCPJ agents now called
from across the office.
"I think you better take this call."
He was holding out a telephone receiver, looking
concerned.
"Who is it?"
Fache said.
The agent frowned.
"It's the director of our Cryptology Department."
"And?"
"It's about Sophie Neveu, sir.
Something is not quite right."
CHAPTER 15
It was time.
Silas felt strong as he stepped from the black
Audi, the nighttime breeze rustling his loose-fitting
robe.
The winds of change are in the air.
He knew the task before him would require
more finesse than force, and he left his handgun
in the car.
The thirteen-round Heckler Koch USP 40 had
been provided by the Teacher.
A weapon of death has no place in a house
of God.
The plaza before the great church was deserted
at this hour, the only visible souls on the
far side of Place Saint-Sulpice a couple of
teenage hookers showing their wares to the
late night tourist traffic.
Their nubile bodies sent a familiar longing
to Silas's loins.
His thigh flexed instinctively, causing the
barbed cilice belt to cut painfully into his
flesh.
The lust evaporated instantly.
For ten years now, Silas had faithfully denied
himself all sexual indulgence, even self-administered.
It was The Way.
He knew he had sacrificed much to follow Opus
Dei, but he had received much more in return.
A vow of celibacy and the relinquishment of
all personal assets hardly seemed a sacrifice.
Considering the poverty from which he had
come and the sexual horrors he had endured
in prison, celibacy was a welcome change.
Now, having returned to France for the first
time since being arrested and shipped to prison
in Andorra, Silas could feel his homeland
testing him, dragging violent memories from
his redeemed soul.
You have been reborn, he reminded himself.
His service to God today had required the
sin of murder, and it was a sacrifice Silas
knew he would have to hold silently in his
heart for all eternity.
The measure of your faith is the measure of
the pain you can endure, the Teacher had told
him.
Silas was no stranger to pain and felt eager
to prove himself to the Teacher, the one who
had assured him his actions were ordained
by a higher power.
"Hago la obra de Dios," Silas whispered, moving
now toward the church entrance.
Pausing in the shadow of the massive doorway,
he took a deep breath.
It was not until this instant that he truly
realized what he was about to do, and what
awaited him inside.
The keystone.
It will lead us to our final goal.
He raised his ghost-white fist and banged
three times on the door.
Moments later, the bolts of the enormous wooden
portal began to move.
CHAPTER 16
Sophie wondered how long it would take Fache
to figure out she had not left the building.
Seeing that Langdon was clearly overwhelmed,
Sophie questioned whether she had done the
right thing by cornering him here in the men's
room.
What else was I supposed to do?
She pictured her grandfather's body, naked
and spread-eagle on the floor.
There was a time when he had meant the world
to her, yet tonight, Sophie was surprised
to feel almost no sadness for the
man.
Jacques Saunière was a stranger to her now.
Their relationship had evaporated in a single
instant one March night when she was twenty-two.
Ten years ago.
Sophie had come home a few days early from
graduate university in England and mistakenly
witnessed her grandfather engaged in something
Sophie was obviously not supposed to see.
It was an image she barely could believe to
this day.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes...
Too ashamed and stunned to endure her grandfather's
pained attempts to explain, Sophie immediately
moved out on her own, taking money she had
saved, and getting a small flat with some
roommates.
She vowed never to speak to anyone about what
she had seen.
Her grandfather tried desperately to reach
her, sending cards and letters, begging Sophie
to meet him so he could explain.
Explain how!?
Sophie never responded except once—to forbid
him ever to call her or try to meet her in
public.
She was afraid his explanation would be more
terrifying than the incident itself.
Incredibly, Saunière had never given up on
her, and Sophie now possessed a decade's worth
of correspondence unopened in a dresser drawer.
To her grandfather's credit, he had never
once disobeyed her request and phoned her.
Until this afternoon.
"Sophie?"
His voice had sounded startlingly old on her
answering machine.
"I have abided by your wishes for so long...
and it pains me to call, but I must speak
to you.
Something terrible has happened."
Standing in the kitchen of her Paris flat,
Sophie felt a chill to hear him again after
all these years.
His gentle voice brought back a flood of fond
childhood memories.
"Sophie, please listen."
He was speaking English to her, as he always
did when she was a little girl.
Practice French at school.
Practice English at home.
"You cannot be mad forever.
Have you not read the letters that I've sent
all these years?
Do you not yet understand?"
He paused.
"We must speak at once.
Please grant your grandfather this one wish.
Call me at the Louvre.
Right away.
I believe you and I are in grave danger."
Sophie stared at the answering machine.
Danger?
What was he talking about?
"Princess..."
Her grandfather's voice cracked with an emotion
Sophie could not place.
"I know I've kept things from you, and I know
it has cost me your love.
But it was for your own safety.
Now you must know the truth.
Please, I must tell you the truth about your
family."
Sophie suddenly could hear her own heart.
My family?
Sophie's parents had died when she was only
four.
Their car went off a bridge into fast-moving
water.
Her grandmother and younger brother had also
been in the car, and Sophie's entire family
had been erased in an instant.
She had a
box of newspaper clippings to confirm it.
His words had sent an unexpected surge of
longing through her bones.
My family!
In that fleeting instant, Sophie saw images
from the dream that had awoken her countless
times when she was a little girl: My family
is alive!
They are coming home!
But, as in her dream, the pictures evaporated
into oblivion.
Your family is dead, Sophie.
They are not coming home.
"Sophie..." her grandfather said on the machine.
"I have been waiting for years to tell you.
Waiting for the right moment, but now time
has run out.
Call me at the Louvre.
As soon as you get this.
I'll wait here all night.
I fear we both may be in danger.
There's so much you need to know."
The message ended.
In the silence, Sophie stood trembling for
what felt like minutes.
As she considered her grandfather's message,
only one possibility made sense, and his true
intent dawned.
It was bait.
Obviously, her grandfather wanted desperately
to see her.
He was trying anything.
Her disgust for the man deepened.
Sophie wondered if maybe he had fallen terminally
ill and had decided to attempt any ploy he
could think of to get Sophie to visit him
one last time.
If so, he had chosen wisely.
My family.
Now, standing in the darkness of the Louvre
men's room, Sophie could hear the echoes of
this afternoon's phone message.
Sophie, we both may be in danger.
Call me.
She had not called him.
Nor had she planned to.
Now, however, her skepticism had been deeply
challenged.
Her grandfather lay murdered inside his own
museum.
And he had written a code on the floor.
A code for her.
Of this, she was certain.
Despite not understanding the meaning of his
message, Sophie was certain its cryptic nature
was additional proof that the words were intended
for her.
Sophie's passion and aptitude for cryptography
were a product of growing up with Jacques
Saunière—a fanatic himself for codes, word
games, and puzzles.
How many Sundays did we spend doing the cryptograms
and crosswords in the newspaper?
At the age of twelve, Sophie could finish
the Le Monde crossword without any help, and
her
grandfather graduated her to crosswords in
English, mathematical puzzles, and substitution
ciphers.
Sophie devoured them all.
Eventually she turned her passion into a profession
by becoming a codebreaker for the Judicial
Police.
Tonight, the cryptographer in Sophie was forced
to respect the efficiency with which her grandfather
had used a simple code to unite two total
strangers—Sophie Neveu and Robert Langdon.
The question was why?
Unfortunately, from the bewildered look in
Langdon's eyes, Sophie sensed the American
had no more idea than she did why her grandfather
had thrown them together.
She pressed again.
"You and my grandfather had planned to meet
tonight.
What about?"
Langdon looked truly perplexed.
"His secretary set the meeting and didn't
offer any specific reason, and I didn't ask.
I assumed he'd heard I would be lecturing
on the pagan iconography of French cathedrals,
was interested in the topic, and thought it
would be fun to meet for drinks after the
talk."
Sophie didn't buy it.
The connection was flimsy.
Her grandfather knew more about pagan iconography
than anyone else on earth.
Moreover, he an exceptionally private man,
not someone prone to chatting with random
American professors unless there were an important
reason.
Sophie took a deep breath and probed further.
"My grandfather called me this afternoon and
told me he and I were in grave danger.
Does that mean anything to you?"
Langdon's blue eyes now clouded with concern.
"No, but considering what just happened..."
Sophie nodded.
Considering tonight's events, she would be
a fool not to be frightened.
Feeling drained, she walked to the small plate-glass
window at the far end of the bathroom and
gazed out in silence through the mesh of alarm
tape embedded in the glass.
They were high up—forty feet at least.
Sighing, she raised her eyes and gazed out
at Paris's dazzling landscape.
On her left, across the Seine, the illuminated
Eiffel Tower.
Straight ahead, the Arc de Triomphe.
And to the right, high atop the sloping rise
of Montmartre, the graceful arabesque dome
of Sacré-Coeur, its polished stone glowing
white like a resplendent sanctuary.
Here at the westernmost tip of the Denon Wing,
the north-south thoroughfare of Place du Carrousel
ran almost flush with the building with only
a narrow sidewalk separating it from the Louvre's
outer wall.
Far below, the usual caravan of the city's
nighttime delivery trucks sat idling, waiting
for the signals to change, their running lights
seeming to twinkle mockingly up at Sophie.
"I don't know what to say," Langdon said,
coming up behind her.
"Your grandfather is obviously trying to tell
us something.
I'm sorry I'm so little help."
Sophie turned from the window, sensing a sincere
regret in Langdon's deep voice.
Even with all the trouble around him, he obviously
wanted to help her.
The teacher in him, she thought, having read
DCPJ's workup on their suspect.
This was an academic who clearly despised
not understanding.
We have that in common, she thought.
As a codebreaker, Sophie made her living extracting
meaning from seemingly senseless data.
Tonight, her best guess was that Robert Langdon,
whether he knew it or not, possessed information
that she desperately needed.
Princesse Sophie, Find Robert Langdon.
How much clearer could her grandfather's message
be?
Sophie needed more time with Langdon.
Time to think.
Time to sort out this mystery together.
Unfortunately, time was running out.
Gazing up at Langdon, Sophie made the only
play she could think of.
"Bezu Fache will be taking you into custody
at any minute.
I can get you out of this museum.
But we need to act now."
Langdon's eyes went wide.
"You want me to run?"
"It's the smartest thing you could do.
If you let Fache take you into custody now,
you'll spend weeks in a French jail while
DCPJ and the U.S. Embassy fight over which
courts try your case.
But if we get you out of here, and make it
to your embassy, then your government will
protect your rights while you and I prove
you had nothing to do with this murder."
Langdon looked not even vaguely convinced.
"Forget it!
Fache has armed guards on every single exit!
Even if we escape without being shot, running
away only makes me look guilty.
You need to tell Fache that the message on
the floor was for you, and that my name is
not there as an accusation."
"I will do that," Sophie said, speaking hurriedly,
"but after you're safely inside the U.S. Embassy.
It's only about a mile from here, and my car
is parked just outside the museum.
Dealing with Fache from here is too much of
a gamble.
Don't you see?
Fache has made it his mission tonight to prove
you are guilty.
The only reason he postponed your arrest was
to run this observance in hopes you did something
that made his case stronger."
"Exactly.
Like running!"
The cell phone in Sophie's sweater pocket
suddenly began ringing.
Fache probably.
She reached in her sweater and turned off
the phone.
"Mr. Langdon," she said hurriedly, "I need
to ask you one last question."
And your entire future may depend on it.
"The writing on the floor is obviously not
proof of your guilt, and yet Fache told
our team he is certain you are his man.
Can you think of any other reason he might
be convinced you're guilty?"
Langdon was silent for several seconds.
"None whatsoever."
Sophie sighed.
Which means Fache is lying.
Why, Sophie could not begin to imagine, but
that was hardly the issue at this point.
The fact remained that Bezu Fache was determined
to put Robert Langdon behind bars tonight,
at any cost.
Sophie needed Langdon for herself, and it
was this dilemma that left Sophie only one
logical conclusion.
I need to get Langdon to the U.S. Embassy.
Turning toward the window, Sophie gazed through
the alarm mesh embedded in the plate glass,
down the dizzying forty feet to the pavement
below.
A leap from this height would leave Langdon
with a couple of broken legs.
At best.
Nonetheless, Sophie made her decision.
Robert Langdon was about to escape the Louvre,
whether he wanted to or not.
