Thieves posing as hard-hat heroes cracked the Louvre’s display cases over the weekend, making off with nine glittering relics from Napoleon Bonaparte’s wardrobe. French officials are now on high alert, but one legendary art bandit says this caper is “damn close” to the priciest museum swipe ever, proving even emperors can’t keep their bling safe from blue-collar bandits.
Myles Connor, the man who once waltzed out of Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts with a Rembrandt tucked under his arm like a forgotten lunchbox, couldn’t resist chiming in from his post-prison perch. “These folks didn’t just grab shiny toys. They snagged national treasures that scream ‘Vive la France!’ louder than a baguette in a blender.”
Picture this: Sunday night in Paris, the City of Light dims just enough for a crew in fluorescent vests to saunter past guards like they’re late for a pothole-patching gig.
They shatter cases with the precision of a kid testing cookie-jar physics, pocketing crowns, necklaces, earrings, and brooches that once dazzled Empress Marie-Louise. It’s the kind of haul that makes jewelers weep and historians hyperventilate—irreplaceable artifacts worth more in swagger than in shekels.
These pilfered pretties aren’t just rocks; they’re rolling stones of history, etched with Napoleon’s conquests and Marie-Louise’s side-eye at courtly drama. Connor, ever the armchair quarterback of crime, warns that melting them down would be like torching the Eiffel Tower for scrap metal—utterly bonkers.
“The whole country will hunt these guys like they’re the ones who invented traffic circles,” he quipped, his voice crackling over the phone like static from a getaway radio.
Escaping on motorcycles—because nothing says “subtle” like revving through Parisian streets at midnight—the thieves vanished into the fog of the Seine, leaving officials scrambling like cats after a laser pointer.
No suspects named yet, but the investigation’s already got more twists than a Tour de France sprint. Connor estimates a cool $5 million reward if someone plays white knight, dangling the loot back via a shady attorney whisper network.
Speaking from experience, Connor recalls his own 1980s Rembrandt romp as less “Ocean’s Eleven” and more “bargain basement bail-out.”
He swiped the masterpiece not for the thrill, but as a golden ticket to plea-bargain his way free—charges dropped, plus a cheeky $50,000 finder’s fee when his pal (ex-manager to Frank Sinatra, no less) “discovered” it. “I turned theft into therapy,” he chuckled, “and walked away richer than a dictator’s dentist.”
For the Louvre looters, though, the punchline might sting: hang onto the haul too long, and you’re not fencing finery—you’re fostering fugitives from fashion history. Connor shakes his head at the risk. “Ruining these? That’s like keying the Mona Lisa because you hate her smile—pure villainy with zero upside.”
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