The noise seemed to be coming from a large recessed alcove that lay ahead on the right.
Fache waved off warden Grouard and led Collet to a nearby alcove, addressing him in hushed tones.
Fache felt rigid as he stood in the alcove.
Rather than crowds and shimmering stained glass, all Langdon saw was acres of desolate floor and shadowy, empty alcoves.
Their tombs, packed into every last niche and alcove, range in grandeur from the most regal of mausoleums—that of Queen Elizabeth I, whose canopied sarcophagus inhabits its own private, apsidal chapel—down to the most modest etched floor tiles whose inscriptions have worn away with centuries of foot traffic, leaving it to one’s imagination whose relics might lie below the tile in the undercroft.
As he and Fache drew nearer the alcove, Langdon peered down a short hallway, into Saunière’s luxurious study—warm wood, Old Master paintings, and an enormous antique desk on which stood a two-foot-tall model of a knight in full armor.