The Grand Heist

The Grand Heist

Monsieur Auguste Fontaine strolled down the Salon Carré at the Louvre. He had recently had an argument with his wife, Agathe, in which she told him the brute that he was, not being able to earn a single Franc. No Agathe, he thought, it is not I who is a brute. For Fontaine, the Louvre was an escape. An escape from his transgressing children, but worse, his barbaric wife. With every Veronese, Da Vinci, Vermeer, and Caravaggio he passed, his heart was calmed and the paintings replaced his everyday concerns. Fontaine was not a man of popularity, for he avoided entering his home in every way possible. He stopped at the library, read books not once touched, then entered the Louvre, and eventually took a long midnight walk through Magnolia trees of the Parc Monceau. Never in his daily journey did he ever speak to an acquaintance on the slender Parisian streets. But Auguste was also an observer. A trait that he had learned from his silent lifestyle. And as he strolled through the grand tapestry in the Louvre, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. “I must be imagining,” he chuckled. His eyebrows furrowed and he turned ninety degrees to his right, completely dumbfounded. “But…” He whispered. “Why this can’t be,” he whispered again. Where is she? Was he hallucinating? No, he was assured, as he reached to touch the wall, where four empty iron hooks hung. “Mona Lisa.” This time, he did not whisper.

Penelope Brodeur had been sitting on a large granite stone in the backwoods of the Riou family farm for the last twenty-seven hours. Dozens of sparrows flew from tree to tree and the sunlight battled to shine through the branches that spread to meet in a circle above her. The humid air smacked itself onto her skin and would not...

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...every bag in the train and keep the Mona Lisa if he found Penelope. It took him a few hundred francs to obey but he proceeded. However, I needed a back-up plan. And that my friend, is why I came to meet you this morning before her train left. When we both returned to the station, I told the conductor that if the bag search failed, a man in a grey suit could take over. I am impressed, Antoine. Excellent!” Vincenzo said.

“And now, what do you plan to do with La Joconde?” Langlois asked, interested.

“Ahhh. I intend to do what that young girl wanted to do. Sell it. We can make millions Antoine! Just imagine the riches! But first, we must get the painting as far away from its home as possible. That girl really did plan this accurately, for Italy sounds like the ideal place.” Peruggia and Langlois confidently smirked. The Mona Lisa’s perilous adventure had only just begun.