The Mona Lisa Sacrifice Read Online Free PDF

have thought it quite so romantic during the Robespierre days, but what city worth visiting didn’t have a troubled past? I thought of all the women I’d loved over the centuries who hadn’t loved me in return, not once they found out what I was. And I thought of the one that had loved me back. I took in the sight of the Notre Dame church again. Paris has changed a great deal over the centuries, but it always feels familiar to me thanks to landmarks like Notre Dame. Although, even many landmarks are different now. Remind me to tell you the story sometime about what happened to the original Arc de Triomphe.
    When I felt ready, I got up and wandered along the sidewalks bordering the river, to the Louvre. I stopped to look at vendors’ paintings and old books every now and then, but seeing as I was currently homeless I refrained from buying anything. However, I was tempted by a chess set with hand-carved pieces. Napoleon and his troops on one side, Wellington and his cannon fodder on the other. Guess which side was black.
    When I finally reached the Louvre I stood in line like any other tourist and let the guard at the entrance search my bag. I’d left the knife back in Remiel’s chamber as a mystery to anyone who might one day find their way up there, which meant my backpack didn’t hold anything more suspicious than my dirty laundry now.
    I didn’t think there was any need for haste, so I wandered the wings for a while, re-acquainting myself with old friends. I sat on a bench and studied Gericault’s
Raft of the Medusa
for what had to be the thousandth time. You just couldn’t find a better example of the human condition than that.
    Then I steeled myself and joined the crowd struggling to get into the room holding the Mona Lisa. I couldn’t even see the painting on account of all the people holding up phones and cameras to take pictures. There was barely space to move, so I just pulled my hat lower over my face and inched forward whenever I could. What the place really needs is one of those Japanese subway station attendants to push people through.
    Eventually I made my way close enough to the front of the crowd that I could look over people’s shoulders and see the Mona Lisa in its protective casing. It looked the same as the last time I’d seen it. It looked the same as all the images you’ve ever seen of it, although most of the posters are usually larger than the real thing. I’ve never seen the reason for all the fuss, to be honest. Sure, she has that thing going on with her smile, but it’s hardly enough to warrant all the attention. The people around me seemed to share my sentiments, judging from their body language and their muttered comments to each other in various languages. I didn’t need to hear their words to understand what they were saying: the language of disappointment is a universal one. And I certainly couldn’t see anything special enough about the painting to warrant an angel’s interest.
    I wondered if the painting we were looking at was a fake, if it had been switched with the original during one of the many times the Mona Lisa had been stolen. But surely the curators would know if that were the case. Unless, of course, they had some reason for not admitting to such a thing.
    I sighed and pushed my way past the painting and into the next exhibit room. I was never going to figure this one out on my own. I needed help.
    I kept walking and doing my best impression of a lost tourist until I reached a hall with an impressive staircase, with an even more impressive statue of a winged woman at the top. She’d probably be the most impressive thing in the Louvre if she had a head and arms, but she didn’t. They’d been knocked off and lost long ago. Her official name is Winged Victory of Samothrace, and the official story is she’s some deity or another in the religion of a lost Greek cult. As usual, though, the official history corresponds to the truth about as much as the real Paris