Chapter 3 Chapter One

Robert Langdon slowly woke up. In the dark the phone rang—a faint, unfamiliar sound.He reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on.He squinted his eyes and looked at the environment, and found that it was a luxurious bedroom in the Renaissance style, with Louis XVI furniture, walls decorated with handmade walls, and a large four-poster mahogany bed. Where the hell am I? The jacquard bathrobe hanging from the bedpost read: HOTEL RITZ PARIS. The fog is slowly dissipating. Langdon picked up the receiver, "Hello!" "Mr. Langdon?" asked a man's voice. "I hope I didn't wake you up!"

He looked sleepily at the clock beside the bed.12:32 midnight.He had just slept for an hour, but felt as if he had passed out. "I'm the hotel concierge, sir. I'm sorry to bother you, but a guest wants to see you. He insists that it's urgent." Langdon was still scratching his head.guest?At this time, his eyes converged on a crumpled leaflet on the bedside table: American University of Paris An academic evening will be held Professor of Religious Semiotics at Harvard University Robert Langdon will be here to teach Langdon snorted.Tonight's presentation - a slide show about pagan symbols hidden in the foundation stone of Chartres Cathedral - may well have choked any conservative listener's lungs.It is very likely that a religious scholar came to find trouble.

"Sorry, I'm tired, and..." Langdon said. "But, sir," the receptionist interrupted hastily, lowered his voice, and whispered urgently: "Your guest is an important person." There is no doubt that his books on religious painting and cult semiotics made him a reluctant celebrity in art circles.He was involved in a highly publicized incident at the Vatican last year, and his appearances have increased a hundredfold since then.Since then, there has been a seemingly endless stream of self-important historians and art buffs flocking to his door. Langdon tried to keep his words polite: "Please write down the person's name and phone number, and tell him that I will call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday. Thank you." Before the receptionist could reply, he hung up. phone.

Langdon sat up, frowning at the guest relations brochure beside him.On the cover of the manual, it boasted: Sleeping like a baby in the brightly lit city, sleeping in the Ritz in Paris.He turned his head and stared wearily at the large mirror opposite.Looking back at him was a stranger, disheveled and weary.You need a vacation, Robert. He suffered a lot last year and was much emaciated.But he was reluctant to be proven in the mirror.His sharp eyes looked cloudy and dull tonight.The huge, shriveled chin was covered with black stubble.Around the temples, gray hairs, growing daily, were digging deep into his thick, thick, black hair.Although his female colleagues kept saying that the gray hair made him look more refined, Langdon didn't think so.

Fortunately, Boston Magazine is not interviewing me now.Much to Langdon's embarrassment, last month Boston Magazine included him in the top ten most noteworthy people in the city—an inexplicable accolade that kept him the brunt of the jokes of his Harvard colleagues. Tonight, three thousand miles from home, when he gave a report, the return of that praise unnerved him. "Ladies and gentlemen, our guest tonight needs no introduction," the hostess announced to a roomful of concubines at the American University in Paris. He has written books such as: Semiotics of the Mysteries , "The Art of the Illuminati" and "The Loss of Ideographic Language", etc. I said he wrote the book "Religious Semiotics", but in fact I only know the title of the book, and many of you use his book in class."

The students in the crowd nodded desperately. "I planned to introduce him by sharing his extraordinary resume with everyone, but..." She glanced at Langdon sitting on the stage with a teasing look. "An audience member just handed me a ... what? ... arguably more interesting introduction. She held up a Boston magazine. Langdon flinched.Where the hell did she get that thing? The hostess began to selectively read selected fragments from the empty article.Langdon felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into the chair.Thirty seconds later, people were baring their teeth and laughing, and the woman hadn't stopped. "Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his extraordinary role in the Vatican conclave last year has fueled interest in him." The hostess teased the audience further: "Would you like to hear more? "

Everyone applauded. Wish someone could make her stop.Langdon prayed silently.But she continued to read the article. "Although Professor Langdon may not be as suave as some young admirers think, the scholar in his forties possesses a rare academic charm for his age. He can attract many people just by showing up, and he His very low baritone added to his allure, and his female students described his voice as "chocolate for the ears. " A burst of laughter erupted in the hall. Embarrassed, Langdon could only force a smile.He knew she was about to say something like, "Harrison Ford wears Harris Gurney," because he was wearing Harris Gurney pants and a Burberry turtleneck.He had thought he could finally wear it safely tonight without making such absurd remarks.He decided to take action.

"Thank you, Monica." Langdon stood up early and pushed the hostess off the podium. "Boston Magazine is obviously very good at storytelling." He turned to the audience and let out a sigh of embarrassment. "If I knew who of you provided that article, I would ask the consul to deport him." The audience laughed again. "Well, you know, guys, I'm here tonight to talk about the importance of symbols." The phone in Langdon's room rang again to break the silence. He picked up the phone and muttered hesitantly, "Hello!" Unsurprisingly, it was the concierge receptionist. "Mr. Langdon, I'm sorry to disturb you again. I'm calling to let you know that your guest is on his way to your room, and I thought I should remind you."

Langdon was sleepless now. "You sent that man to my room?" "I'm sorry, sir, but a man like him . . . I don't think I'd take the liberty of stopping him." "Who the hell?" But the concierge receptionist had hung up on the phone. Before the words were finished, someone knocked heavily on the door with their fists. Langdon felt a twinge of unease.He got out of bed in a hurry, feeling his toes sink deep into the Savonari rug on the floor.He put on the pajamas provided by the hotel and walked towards the door. "Who?" "Mr. Langdon? I need to speak to you," the man called out in a sharp, authoritative tone.He speaks English with a heavy accent. "I am Captain Jerome Collet of the Central Judicial Police.

Langdon froze for a moment.judicial police?This is roughly equivalent to the FBI in the United States. After putting the safety chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few inches wide.The face of the man staring at him was thin and pale.The man was very thin, in a blue uniform, and looked like an official. "Can I come in?" the agent asked. The stranger's sallow eyes surveyed Langdon, making him feel uneasy. "what is the problem?" "Our Chief of Police needs your expertise in a private matter." "Now? In the middle of the night." Langdon forced out a sentence.

"You were going to meet the curator of the Louvre tonight, weren't you?" Langdon felt a sudden unease.He and the respected curator Jacques Saunière had agreed to meet after tonight's report to have a chat, but Saunière never showed up. "How did you know." "We saw your name in his 'daily plan.'" "I hope nothing goes wrong." The agent sighed heavily, and slipped a Polaroid snapshot through the narrow opening of the door. Looking at the photo, Langdon froze. "The picture was taken less than half an hour ago—in the Louvre." Staring at the strange photo, he was first disgusted and shocked, then furious. "Who would do such a thing!" "Given that you are an expert in semiotics and that you were planning to meet him, we would like your help in answering this question." Langdon looked at the photo with horror and concern.The sight was chillingly strange, and he had an uneasy, déjà vu feeling.Langdon had also seen a photo of a dead body more than a year ago and encountered a similar call for help.Twenty-four hours later, he nearly died in Vatican City.This picture is completely different from that one, but the scene is so similar that it is disturbing. The agent looked at his watch and said, "Our chief is waiting for you, sir." Langdon didn't quite catch what he said.His eyes were still on the picture. "The symbol, the corpse so strangely..." "Place it," the agent continued. Langdon nodded, then raised his head again, feeling a threatening chill. "Who would do such a thing to a man?" The agent appears expressionless. "You don't know, Mr. Langdon, what you saw in the photo...", he said after a pause, "Mr. Saunière did it himself."