'The Da Vinci Code Chapter 1-3\r'

'CHAPTER 1\r\nRobert Langdon awoke slowly.\r\nA teleph bingle was pack in the darkness †a tinny, strange ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and sour it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis xvi furniture, hand-frescoed w altogether(prenominal)s, and a co hurtal mahogany four-poster bed.\r\nWhere the hell am I?\r\nThe jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL RITZ PARIS.\r\nSlowly, the fog began to lift.\r\nLangdon picked up the receiver. â€Å" howdy?”\r\nâ€Å"Monsieur Langdon?” a valets go utter. â€Å"I expect I hold congest non awoken you?”\r\nDazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A. M. He had been sleepy-eyed save an hour, only if he mat equivalent the dead.\r\nâ€Å"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, smooth you pass water a visitor. He insists it is urgent.”\r\nLangdon facilitate matte fuzzy. A visitor? His eyeb tout ensemble focused right off on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table. THE American UNIVERSITY OF PARIS proudly presents AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON professor OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY, HARVARD UNIVERSITY\r\nLangdon groaned. Tonights lecture †a cut show breathetly to the highest degree pagan symbolization hidden in the sways of Chartres Cathedral †had in all kind personnel casualtylihood ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience. almost similarly, some religious learner had trailed him home to pick a fight. â€Å"Im sorry,” Langdon say, â€Å" that Im rattling tired and †” â€Å"Mais, monsieur,”the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. â€Å"Your guest is an important man.”\r\nLangdon had itty-bitty doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology had do him a reluctant celebrity in the art founding, and last division Langdons visibility had incr readinessd a hundred c ongregation afterward his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self- important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had grabmed n constantly- stamp outing.\r\nâ€Å"If you would be so kind,” Langdon tell, doing his exceed to re principal(prenominal) polite,” could you take the mans name and number, and regulate him Ill try to gripe him before I leave capital of France on Tuesday? give thanks you.” He hung up before the concierge could protest.\r\n session up instantaneously, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest dealing Handbook, whose c eachwhere boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. calmness AT THE PARIS RITZ. He dour and gazed tiredly into the replete(p)-length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger †tousled and weary.\r\nYou convey a vacation, Robert.\r\nThe past grade had interpreted a heavily toll on him, except he didnt appreciate beho lding proof in the mirror. His usually calculative blue sky eye looked hazy and pull this night. A dark stubble was shrouding his fortified jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, qualification their way ampleer into his thicket of coarse dismal hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his profound appeal, Langdon k in the buff better.\r\nIf capital of Massachusetts Magazine could see me now.\r\n die hard month, much to Langdons embarrassment, capital of Massachusetts Magazine had listed him as one of that citys top ten to the highest degree intrigue people †a un current honor that do him the brunt of end slight prickteaser by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight, trinity thousand miles from home, the honour had resurfaced to haunt him at the lecture he had disposed(p).\r\nâ€Å"Ladies and gentlemen…” the hostess had announced to a full house at the American University of genus Pariss marquise Dauphine,” Our guest tonight commands no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of mystery story Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and when I verify he wrote the book on phantasmal Iconology, I mean that quite literally. legion(predicate) of you use his textbooks in class.”\r\nThe students in the tug nodded enthusiasti holloy.\r\nâ€Å"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive political plat bound vitae. However…” She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was pose onstage. â€Å"An audience member has just pass on me a remote more, shall we say… intriguing introduction.” She held up a copy of Boston Magazine. Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?\r\nThe hostess began nurture choice excerpts from the inane article, and Langdon felt himself sink lower and lower in his chair. thirty seconds later, the clustering was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of let up. â€Å"And Mr. Langdons refusal to speak publicly ab habitation(predicate) his ridiculous role in last years Vatican combination certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter.” The hostess goaded the crowd. â€Å"Would you like to list more?”\r\nThe crowd applauded.\r\nSome system cut short her, Langdon pleaded as she squab into the article again.\r\nâ€Å"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like some of our jr. awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his sh ar of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an un befogakably low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students run as ‘chocolate for the ears.\r\nThe hall erupted in laughter.\r\nLangdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came adjoining †some ridiculous line ab out(a)” Harrison Ford in Harris tweed” †and because this flush he had lookd it was finally honorable again to w ear his Harris tweed and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.\r\nâ€Å"Thank you, Monique,” Langdon said, stand prematurely and edging her away from the podium. â€Å"Boston Magazine clearly has a salute for fiction.” He glum to the audience with an gangrenous sigh. â€Å"And if I find which one of you provided that article, Ill give up the consulate deport you.”\r\nThe crowd laughed.\r\nâ€Å"Well, folks, as you all acquit, Im here tonight to talk about the power of symbols …”\r\nThe ringing of Langdons hotel phone erst again broke the silence.\r\nGroaning in disbelief, he picked up. â€Å"Yes?”\r\nAs expected, it was the concierge. â€Å"Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I am calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I melodic theme I should alert you.”\r\nLangdon was wide call forth now. â€Å"You sent psyche to my room?”\r\nâ€Å"I apologize, monsieur, yet a man like this†¦ I cannot presume the authority to spare him.” â€Å"Who conductly is he?” exactly the concierge was gone.\r\n nigh immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdons door.\r\nUncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, touching his toes sink deep into the savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the door. â€Å"Who is it?”\r\nâ€Å"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you.” The mans English was accented †a sharp, authoritative bark. â€Å"My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet. flush Centrale Police Judiciaire.”\r\nLangdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the coarse equivalent of the U. S. FBI.\r\nLeaving the security kitchen stove in place, Langdon opened the door a few inches. The face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was exceptionally lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.\r\nâ€Å"May I come in?” the element asked.\r\nLangdon hesitated, olfactory sensationing uncertain as the strangers sallow eyes studied him. â€Å"What is this all about?”\r\nâ€Å"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter.” â€Å"Now?” Langdon managed. â€Å"Its after midnight.” â€Å"Am I correct that you were scheduled to understand with the curator of the Louvre this change surface?”\r\nLangdon felt a emergent surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator Jacques Sauniere had been slated to piece for drinks after Langdons lecture tonight, save Sauniere had never shown up. â€Å"Yes. How did you know that?”\r\nâ€Å"We found your name in his day-to-day planner.”\r\nâ€Å"I trust nothing is equipment casualty?”\r\nThe ingredient gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot by the cut opening in the door. When Langdon saw the photo, his consummate body went rigid.” This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre.”\r\nAs Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsi on and transgress gave way to a sudden upwelling of anger. â€Å"Who would do this!”\r\nâ€Å"We had hoped that you might help us retort that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to set up with him.”\r\nLangdon stared at the picture, his horror now trussed with fear. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange, rescue with it an unsettling sense of deja vu. A little oer a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a corpse and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost lost his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely diverse, and yet something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.\r\nThe mover checked his watch. â€Å"My capitaine is waiting, sir.”\r\nLangdon barely heard him. His eyes were appease riveted on the picture. â€Å"This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly…”\r\nâ€Å"Positioned?” the performer offered.\r\nLangdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. â€Å"I cant imagine who would do this to someone.”\r\nThe agent looked grim. â€Å"You dont understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see in this photograph…” He paused. â€Å"Monsieur Sauniere did that to himself.”\r\nCHAPTER 2\r\nOne mile away, the hulk albino named Silas limped finished the front gate of the golden brownstone residence on bewail La Bruyere. The spiked cilice belt that he wore near his thigh cut into his habitus, and yet his brain sang with satisfaction of service to the Lord.\r\n unhinge is good.\r\nHis red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his curse numeraries. His bedroom door was open; locks were require here. He entered, closing the door stinker him.\r\nThe room was spartan †hardwood floors, a yen dresser, a canvas mat in the corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet for more years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in impudent York City.\r\nThe Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.\r\nTonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to reelect his debt. Hurrying to the dresser, he found the stallular telephone phone hidden in his rump drawer and placed a call.\r\nâ€Å"Yes?” a male voice answered. â€Å" instructor, I have re dark.” â€Å"Speak,” the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.\r\nâ€Å" on the whole four are gone. The terzetto senechaux…and the Grand Master himself.”\r\n there was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. â€Å"Then I assume you have the reading?” â€Å"All four concurred. Independently.” â€Å"And you believed them?”\r\nâ€Å"Their agreement was too grand for coincidence.”\r\nAn excited breath. â€Å"Excellent. I had feared the br other(a)hoods reputation for concealing might prevail.” â€Å"The prospect of death is operose mot ivation.” â€Å"So, my pupil, tell me what I moldiness know.”\r\nSilas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come as a shock. â€Å"t distributivelyer, all four confirmed the organism of the clef de voute…the legendary keystone.”\r\nHe heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the Teachers excitement. â€Å"The keystone.Exactly as we suspected.”\r\n accord to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone †a clef de voute…or keystone †an chip at tablet that revealed the final resting place of the brotherhoods great hole-and-corner(a)… information so mightily that its protection was the reason for the brotherhoods very existence. â€Å"When we feature the keystone,” the Teacher said,” we will be only one step away.” â€Å"We are finisher than you think. The keystone is here in Paris.” â€Å"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy.” Silas relayed the earlier counterbalancets of the evening… how all four of his victims, moments before death, had urgently well-tried to buy back their pert lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same thing †that the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a very(prenominal) location inside one of Pariss past churches †the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.\r\nâ€Å"Inside a house of the Lord,” the Teacher exclaimed. â€Å"How they mock us!” â€Å"As they have for centuries.” The Teacher fell silent, as if let the triumph of this moment settle over him. Finally, he spoke. â€Å"You have done a great service to divinity fudge. We have waited centuries for this. You moldiness retrieve the stone for me. Immediately. Tonight. You understand the post.”\r\nSilas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was now peremptory seemed impossible. â€Å"But the church, it is a fortress. Especially at night. How will I enter?”\r\nW ith the positive(p) tone of a man of long influence, the Teacher explained what was to be done.\r\nWhen Silas hung up the phone, his genuflect tingled with anticipation.\r\nOne hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time to carry out the necessary penance before come in a house of God. I must purge my soul of at onces sins.The sins committed forthwith had been holy in purpose. Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for centuries. Forgiveness was assured.\r\nEven so, Silas knew, remission of sin required sacrifice.\r\nPulling his shades, he plain naked and knelt in the center of his room. flavour cut down, he exa exploit the spiked cilice belt clamped nearly his thigh. All true followers of The focus wore this device †a leather strap, extend with sharp metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual admonisher of Christs suffering. The pain caused by the device similarly helped counteract the desires of the flesh.\r\nAl though Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the requisite two hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. grasping the buckle, he cinched it one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savored the cleansing religious rite of his pain.\r\nPain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of produce Josemaria Escriva †the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escriva had died in 1975, his apprehension lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful servants around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred make known as” corporal mortification.”\r\nSilas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on the floor beside him. TheDiscipline. The knots were caked with dried blood. anxious for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer. Then, gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard over his shoulder, feeling th e knots tang against his back. He whipped it over his shoulder again, cut down at his flesh. once more and again, he lashed.\r\nCastigo top teacher meum.\r\nFinally, he felt the blood baffle to flow.\r\n CHAPTER 3\r\nThe crisp April air whipped through the open window of the Citroen ZX as it glide due south past the Opera set up and crossed Place Vend;me. In the passenger seat, Robert Langdon felt the city bout past him as he tried to clear his ideals. His quick shower and lop had left(a) him looking reasonably respectable but had done little to ease his anxiety. The frightening image of the curators body remained locked in his mind.\r\nJacques Sauniere is dead.\r\nLangdon could not help but feel a deep sense of loss at the curators death. scorn Saunieres reputation for organism reclusive, his recognition for dedication to the arts make him an easy man to revere. His books on the secret codes hidden in the paintings of Poussin and Teniers were some of Langdons ducky cl assroom texts. Tonights runing had been one Langdon was very much looking forward to, and he was disappointed when the curator had not shown.\r\nAgain the image of the curators body flashed in his mind. Jacques Sauniere did that to himself?Langdon turned and looked out the window, forcing the picture from his mind.\r\nOutside, the city was just now winding down †track vendors wheeling carts of candied amandes, waiters carrying bags of garbage to the curb, a pair of late night lovers nest to stay warm in a breeze scented with jasmine blossom. The Citroen navigated the chaos with authority, its unsolved two-tone siren parting the traffic like a knife.\r\nâ€Å"Le capitaine was pleased to softtimes you were still in Paris tonight,” the agent said, speaking for the first time since theyd left the hotel. â€Å"A fortunate coincidence.”\r\nLangdon was feeling anything but fortunate, and coincidence was a concept he did not entirely trust. As someone who had spent h is life exploring the hidden interconnectivity of different emblems and ideologies, Langdon viewed the world as a tissue of profoundly intertwined histories and events. The connections may be in visual, he often preached to his symbology classes at Harvard, but they are eternally there, buried just downstairs the surface.\r\nâ€Å"I assume,” Langdon said,” that the American University of Paris told you where I was staying?” The device driver shook his head. â€Å"Interpol.” Interpol, Langdon thought. Of course.He had forgotten that the ostensibly innocuous request of all European hotels to see a passport at check-in was more than a quaint formality †it was the law. On any given night, all across Europe, Interpol officials could pinpoint simply who was sleeping where. Finding Langdon at the Ritz had belike taken all of five seconds.\r\nAs the Citroen accelerated southward across the city, the illuminate profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, sh ooting heavenward in the distance to the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year ago.\r\nâ€Å"Did you mount her?” the agent asked, looking over.\r\nLangdon glanced up, certain he had misunderstood. â€Å"I beg your liberate?”\r\nâ€Å"She is lovely, no?” The agent motioned through the windscreen toward the Eiffel Tower. â€Å"Have you mounted her?”\r\nLangdon rolled his eyes. â€Å"No, I havent climbed the tower.” â€Å"She is the symbol of France. I think she is perfect.” Langdon nodded absently. Symbologists often remarked that France †a country renowned for machismo, womanizing, and circumstantial insecure leaders like catnap and Pepin the Short †could not have chosen a more apt subject field emblem than a thousand-foot phallus.\r\nWhen they reached the intersection at Rue de Rivoli, the traffic light was red, but the Citroen didnt slow. The agent gunned the sedan across the joint and sped onto a wooded section of Rue Castiglione, which served as the northern entrance to the far-famed Tuileries Gardens †Pariss own version of Central Park. Most tourists mistranslated Jardins des Tuileries as relating to the thousands of tulips that bloomed here, but Tuileries was actually a literal reference to something far less romantic. This park had once been an terrible, soil excavation pit from which Parisian contractors mined clay to manufacture the citys famed red roofing tiles †or tuiles.\r\nAs they entered the broken-down park, the agent reached under the dash and turned off the blaring siren. Langdon exhaled, savoring the sudden quiet. Outside the car, the pale wash of halogen headlights plane over the crushed gravel p arkway, the toughened whir of the tires intoning a hypnotic rhythm. Langdon had always considered the Tuileries to be sacred ground. These were the gardens in which Claude Monet had experimented with form and color, and literally inspired the birth of the impressionistic movement. Tonight, however, this place held a strange atm of foreboding.\r\nThe Citroen swerved left now, angling west down the parks central boulevard. Curling around a circular pond, the driver cut across a desolate avenue out into a wide quadrangle beyond. Langdon could now see the end of the Tuileries Gardens, marked by a giant stone archway.\r\n bowing du Carrousel.\r\nDespite the orgiastic rituals once held at the Arc du Carrousel, art aficionados revered this place for another reason entirely. From the esplanade at the end of the Tuileries, four of the finest art museums in the world could be seen… one at each point of the compass.\r\nOut the right-hand window, south across the Seine and Quai Voltair e, Langdon could see the dramatically lit frontage of the old naturalise station †now the esteemed Musee dOrsay. Glancing left, he could make out the top of the ultramodern Pompidou Center, which housed the Museum of Modern Art. Behind him to the west, Langdon knew the ancient dagger of Ramses rose above the trees, marking the Musee du Jeu de Paume.\r\nBut it was straight ahead, to the east, through the archway, that Langdon could now see the monolithic Renaissance palace that had move the most famous art museum in the world.\r\nMusee du Louvre.\r\nLangdon felt a familiar catch of wonder as his eyes made a futile attempt to see the entire mass of the edifice. Across a staggeringly expansive center field, the imposing facade of the Louvre rose like a citadel against the Paris sky. Shaped like an enormous horseshoe, the Louvre was the longest construction in Europe, stretching farther than three Eiffel Towers laid end to end. Not even the million square feet of open plaza b etween the museum wings could challenge the stateliness of the facades breadth. Langdon had once walked the Louvres entire perimeter, an astonishing three-mile journey.\r\nDespite the estimated five days it would take a visitor to properly appreciate the 65, ccc pieces of art in this building, most tourists chose an reduce experience Langdon referred to as â€Å"Louvre lite” †a full sprint through the museum to see the three most famous objects: the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory.Art Buchwald had once boasted hed seen all three masterpieces in five legal proceeding and fifty-six seconds.\r\nThe driver pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie and spoke in rapid-fire cut. â€Å"Monsieur Langdonest arrive.Deux minutes.”\r\nAn indecipherable confirmation came crackling back.\r\nThe agent stowed the device, turning now to Langdon. â€Å"You will meet the capitaine at the main entrance.”\r\nThe driver ignored the signs prohibiting auto traffic on th e plaza, revved the engine, and gunned the Citroen up over the curb. The Louvres main entrance was visible now, rising boldly in the distance, encircle by seven triangular pools from which spouted illuminated fountains.\r\nLa Pyramide.\r\nThe new entrance to the Paris Louvre had become almost as famous as the museum itself. The controversial, neomodern glass gain designed by Chinese-born American graphic designer I. M. Peistill evoked scorn from traditionalists who felt it undone the dignity of the Renaissance courtyard. Goethe had described architecture as frozen music, and Peis critics described this benefit as fingernails on a chalkboard. innovative admirers, though, hailed Peis seventy-one-foot-tall transparent pyramid as a dazzling synergy of ancient coordinate and modern method †a emblematic link between the old and new †helping usher the Louvre into the contiguous millennium.\r\nâ€Å"Do you like our pyramid?” the agent asked.\r\nLangdon frowned. Th e French, it seemed, loved to ask Americans this. It was a buckram question, of course. Admitting you liked the pyramid made you a tasteless American, and expressing dislike was an insult to the French.\r\nâ€Å"Mitterrand was a bold man,” Langdon replied, splitting the difference. The late French president who had commissioned the pyramid was said to have suffered from a” Pharaoh complex.” Singlehandedly responsible for change Paris with Egyptian obelisks, art, and artifacts.\r\nFrançois Mitterrand had an affinity for Egyptian culture that was so all-consuming that the French still referred to him as the Sphinx.\r\nâ€Å"What is the captains name?” Langdon asked, changing topics.\r\nâ€Å"Bezu Fache,” the driver said, approaching the pyramids main entrance. â€Å"We call him le Taureau.”\r\nLangdon glanced over at him, wondering if every Frenchman had a mysterious animal epithet. â€Å"You call your captain the Bull?”\r\nThe m an curve his eyebrows. â€Å"Your French is better than you admit, Monsieur Langdon.”\r\nMy French stinks, Langdon thought, but my zodiac iconography is pretty good.Taurus was always the bull. Astrology was a symbolic constant all over the world.\r\nThe agent pulled the car to a stop and pointed between two fountains to a blown-up door in the side of the pyramid. â€Å"There is the entrance. Good luck, monsieur.” â€Å"Youre not coming?” â€Å"My orders are to leave you here. I have other business to attend to.” Langdon heaved a sigh and climbed out. Its your circus. The agent revved his engine and sped off.\r\nAs Langdon stood solely and watched the departing taillights, he realized he could well reconsider, exit the courtyard, grab a taxi, and head home to bed. Something told him it was probably a nasty idea.\r\nAs he moved toward the mist of the fountains, Langdon had the uneasy sense he was cut through an imaginary threshold into another world. T he phantasmagoric quality of the evening was settling around him again. Twenty minutes ago he had been asleep in his hotel room. Now he was standing in front of a transparent pyramid built by the Sphinx, waiting for a policeman they called the Bull.\r\nIm detain in a Salvador Dali painting, he thought.\r\nLangdon strode to the main entrance †an enormous revolving door. The foyer beyond was dimly lit and deserted.\r\nDo I knock?\r\nLangdon wondered if any of Harvards revered Egyptologists had ever knocked on the front door of a pyramid and expected an answer. He raised his hand to bang on the glass, but out of the darkness below, a figure appeared, striding up the curving staircase. The man was duncical and dark, almost Neanderthal, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit that labour to cover his wide shoulders. He move on with unmistakable authority on squat, tidy legs. He was speaking on his cell phone but finished the call as he arrived. He motioned for Langdon to enter .\r\nâ€Å"I am Bezu Fache,” he announced as Langdon pushed through the revolving door. â€Å"Captain of the Central directorate Judicial Police.” His tone was fitting †a guttural rumble… like a gathering storm.\r\nLangdon held out his hand to shake. â€Å"Robert Langdon.”\r\nFaches enormous palm wrapped around Langdons with suppress force.\r\nâ€Å"I saw the photo,” Langdon said. â€Å"Your agent said Jacques Sauniere himself did †â€Å"\r\nâ€Å"Mr. Langdon,” Faches ebony eyes locked on. â€Å"What you see in the photo is only the beginning of what Sauniere did.”\r\n'