The Parisian Codex

30 - A night at the Louvre

I dropped the grimoire off at Romane's and, after a few safety instructions for the budding necromancer, took to my heels.

It was Wednesday, and the Louvre Museum remained open until 9:45 pm. This was my chance to take a look at the famous oriental antiquities.

Parisians had turned up their collars against the sleet. I walked down the street towards the Seine, turned my back on the church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and crossed the Perrault colonnade into the "Cour Carrée" courtyard. A second covered passageway took me into the Cour Napoléon. The glass pyramid stood before me. A few decades earlier, in the mid-80s, the project had been the talk of the town. Historians, the press and the political opposition of the time had had a field day criticizing the project. If they'd lived in Paris as long as I have, they'd have understood that this city is nothing but a juxtaposition of styles, cultures and eras—despite Baron Haussmann's attempts at standardization.

On this early evening, only a few enthusiasts hurried to the entrance of the glass Pyramid. I went through the security checks—I'd left my penknife at the office—and went down the grand staircase into the immense hall.

The place was larger than a cathedral, and busier too. Everything had changed again since my last visit, and you now had to face an automaton to have the privilege of paying your entrance fee. Once I had my sesame, I asked a welcoming host for directions. An escalator took me to the first floor, and I entered the Richelieu wing.

Every time I cross the threshold of the Khorsabad courtyard, I feel as if I'm discovering the place for the first time. Visitors are both outside (in one of the Louvre's small courtyards) and inside (under a modern glass roof). Four bearded giants watch over this strange space: the Khorsabad bulls. These monumental alabaster sculptures came from Iraq in the mid-19th century. Their bodies are those of powerful bulls, their heads of handsome, bearded men. Their wings remind me of angels. Even blunted by more than thirty centuries, their magic remains palpable. Fierce protection. But the palace they were meant to guard has long since fallen. Now these protective genies, so much older and stranger than me, watch over the Louvre. I've loved them ever since we first met in May 1847. King Louis-Philippe had just inaugurated the "Assyrian Museum" created for these beauties. I rushed, among a crowd of enthusiastic Parisians, to discover the Levantine treasures. At the time, the collection occupied a corner of the Cour Carrée. They have adapted admirably to their new home. I greeted them in silence, with all due respect, and moved on to the next room.

The star here was a black stone stele, far less impressive than the bulls: the Code of Hammurabi. This is the oldest known legal text. Two young men, probably law students, were enthralled by the stele, forgetting that the text does not accord the same value to all lives, that a slave is worth less than a free woman, who is worth less than a free man. The oldest human laws only confirm one fact: the injustice of the world is as old as stones.

I bypassed the code and began examining the contents of the display cases. I'd been a frequent visitor to the Louvre since the palace was transformed into a museum. The galleries dedicated to antiquities fascinated me, despite the mixture of auras they gave off. When you bring together so many ancient and mostly sacred objects, you create a mass of uncommon energy. Waves of magic tickled my nose, itched my back and, of course, made my canines grind. Eventually, I found the ring in a nook near a window. The jewel was on display in a glass case, alongside fragments of crockery and golden arrowheads.

It was a gold ring adorned with delicate rectangles of ruby. The top of the ring supported a cylinder engraved with cuneiform symbols. The cylinder was mounted on an axle and could probably revolve. The ends of the axle were also adorned with rubies. It was a delicate-looking jewel, but its energy belied its appearance.