Epilogue

           RobertLangdonawokewithastart.Hehadbeendreaming.ThebathrobebesidehisbedborethemonogramHOTELRITZPARIS.Hesawadimlightfilteringthroughtheblinds.Isitduskordawn?hewondered.

           Langdon’sbodyfeltwarmanddeeplycontented.Hehadsleptthebetterpartofthelasttwodays.Sittingupslowlyinbed,henowrealizedwhathadawokenhim…thestrangestthought.Fordayshehadbeentryingtosortthroughabarrageofinformation,butnowLangdonfoundhimselffixedonsomethinghe’dnotconsideredbefore.

           Coulditbe?

           Heremainedmotionlessalongmoment.

           Gettingoutofbed,hewalkedtothemarbleshower.Steppinginside,heletthepowerfuljetsmessagehisshoulders.Still,thethoughtenthralledhim.

           Impossible.

           Twentyminuteslater,LangdonsteppedoutoftheHotelRitzintoPlaceVendôme.Nightwasfalling.Thedaysofsleephadlefthimdisoriented…andyethismindfeltoddlylucid.Hehadpromisedhimselfhewouldstopinthehotellobbyforacafeaulaittoclearhisthoughts,butinsteadhislegscarriedhimdirectlyoutthefrontdoorintothegatheringParisnight.

           WalkingeastonRuedesPetitsChamps,Langdonfeltagrowingexcitement.HeturnedsouthontoRueRichelieu,wheretheairgrewsweetwiththescentofblossomingjasminefromthestatelygardensofthePalaisRoyal.

           Hecontinuedsouthuntilhesawwhathewaslookingforthefamousroyalarcadeaglisteningexpanseofpolishedblackmarble.Movingontoit,Langdonscannedthesurfacebeneathhisfeet.

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