P
Polyphème sighted, he had fallen asleep in pavilion Daru again. Out of the countless exposition rooms succeeding each other, this one was the warmest and he often found himself dozing off in one of its visitor chairs during his night patrol. Stretching out his aching joints and shaking a slight feeling of unease that had carried from slumber; he was in the process of standing up when his eyes fell upon the dark mass slumped on the floor only a few feet away from him. His heart rate quickened again, crossing the room swiftly, he seized the wrist of Monsieur Champollion’s prone body.
No pulse.
What could possibly have happened? Did it take place when he was asleep, so close to him? Panic rising, Polyphème stumbled his way to a nearby intercom to dial in the security office. His stumbling speech was met with blank surprise at the other end of the line, followed by the stern order to stay where he was and that help was on its way.
When he replaced the handset on its receptacle with trembling hands, Polyphème found himself alone in a room which had turned eerie and menacing, with for only company the corpse of the murdered Directeur du Louvre and the silent stares of hundreds portraits adorning the great museum’s walls.
From the corner of his eyes he caught a slight movement. Was it his imagination or did Madame Récamier just wink at him?
~~~~~
