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♠ vol qualifié ( artistecon )
With a final push, the Oath of the Horatii slides into the cart, the frame propped up against its sides. Beside it, Élise leans on the cart and breathes deeply, soreness from the strain of moving the painting already settling into her shoulders. After a moment, she climbs into the bed of the cart and unrolls the sheet stowed in a corner. She takes one more look at the painting before throwing the sheet over its face. Working by the light of a single lantern, she crisscrosses the wrapping with a thin rope, tying knots with swift fingers to secure it.
Soon, the painting resembles nothing more than a board swathed in dull white. Yet Élise doesn't allow herself the luxury of a sigh of relief. The night's work has only started, and her fortune at finding the artwork unattended surely wouldn't last for much longer.
But so far, everything is quiet and calm. Her horse, Scratch, waits in front of the cart he's hitched to, occasionally pawing at the ground. Truth be told, this wasn't what Élise had anticipated for tonight, but she didn't have much choice after seeing the Oath of the Horatii hanging on the very walls of Notre-Dame. Standing there, listening to the surrounding crowd murmur and marvel about the daring display, she remembered those mysterious notes that seemed to appear from nowhere just like the painting, yet placed just so that only she would see them. She had doubts about writing back then—doubts that seemed all but confirmed the moment that she glimpsed the painting's gilded frame. Fantomex. Jean-Phillipe. A thief she had given her name to and who might have stolen the painting from the Louvre anyway had their correspondence not happened—but Élise feels responsible for it all the same.
But she can't let those misgivings overtake her tonight. Tomorrow, the king is to be executed by guillotine. Tomorrow, she would meet the man who gave the order to murder her father and deliver him to his own death. She can't afford to have her mind occupied by anything else before the morning comes.
For that, she'll need to bring the painting back to where it belonged. Élise ties the last knot with a particularly hard yank. Picking up the lantern, she gets out of the cart. Scratch whinnies softly as she approaches him, and she gives him a pat on his flank.
Dimly let, the street leading to the Pont Neuf—and the Louvre—stretches before her. Hopefully, the journey would end as uneventfully as it started.
Soon, the painting resembles nothing more than a board swathed in dull white. Yet Élise doesn't allow herself the luxury of a sigh of relief. The night's work has only started, and her fortune at finding the artwork unattended surely wouldn't last for much longer.
But so far, everything is quiet and calm. Her horse, Scratch, waits in front of the cart he's hitched to, occasionally pawing at the ground. Truth be told, this wasn't what Élise had anticipated for tonight, but she didn't have much choice after seeing the Oath of the Horatii hanging on the very walls of Notre-Dame. Standing there, listening to the surrounding crowd murmur and marvel about the daring display, she remembered those mysterious notes that seemed to appear from nowhere just like the painting, yet placed just so that only she would see them. She had doubts about writing back then—doubts that seemed all but confirmed the moment that she glimpsed the painting's gilded frame. Fantomex. Jean-Phillipe. A thief she had given her name to and who might have stolen the painting from the Louvre anyway had their correspondence not happened—but Élise feels responsible for it all the same.
But she can't let those misgivings overtake her tonight. Tomorrow, the king is to be executed by guillotine. Tomorrow, she would meet the man who gave the order to murder her father and deliver him to his own death. She can't afford to have her mind occupied by anything else before the morning comes.
For that, she'll need to bring the painting back to where it belonged. Élise ties the last knot with a particularly hard yank. Picking up the lantern, she gets out of the cart. Scratch whinnies softly as she approaches him, and she gives him a pat on his flank.
Dimly let, the street leading to the Pont Neuf—and the Louvre—stretches before her. Hopefully, the journey would end as uneventfully as it started.