As her cane beat out a rhythmical tap upon the footpath between the Eglise Saint Etienne and the Bibliotheque Saint Genevieve, Camille did not see the shape lurking in the shadow of the Pantheon. As she did most Sunday mornings on her path back from the boulangerie, she wove her way between the tourists, many of them with no more than a ‘pardon’ or a ‘merci, madam’.
Camille made her way along Rue Clovis to where it intersected with Rue Descartes. Inexplicably, she turned to her left instead of to her right, and was immediately engulfed with confusion.
She had not noticed the lithe shape behind her, nor heard his soft padding. He was onto her, knocking her cane out from beneath her and rudely tugging her satchel from her shoulder. The croissants, still warm from the ovens, tumbled onto the cobblestones, joining the scarlet drops of still warm blood.