It was August 22, 1911, it was a sunny morning when a local artist, Louis Béroud, strutted into Paris largest museum, ready to sketch the most famous portrait of a mysterious Lady as he’d done many times before. But this time, something was amiss. He found only an empty space on the wall, marked by four lonely nails. The painting had vanished! Now, losing a sock in the laundry is one thing, but misplacing the world’s most iconic masterpiece? That’s a whole new level of oops!
Naturally, pandemonium ensued. First, they checked if “The Lady” had wandered off to be photographed by Adolphe Braun, the Louvre’s official photographer. No luck there. After a frantic search, they found the painting’s frame and protective case tossed aside in a stairwell. It was official—someone had stolen her. And with the summer heat making everyone a bit lazier than usual, the folks in charge were conveniently on vacation (vacations are a serious thing here in France). The director of the National Museums was off in the Vosges, probably sipping wine, while the Under-Secretary of State for Fine Arts was MIA. Still, by 5:30 PM, they had enough sense to kick off an investigation.
Everyone who had been in the museum on that fateful Monday (back then, the Louvre was closed on Mondays, today it is Tuesday—because even world-famous paintings need a day off) was grilled for information. This included the staff, artists, photographers, and even the janitors. One plumber recalled noticing a suspicious doorknob that had gone missing, and a guy in a smock who asked him to open a door. But whether this mystery man had been lugging around a priceless painting or just a bag of croissants, the plumber couldn’t say. Was the thief working alone? Who knew?
Meanwhile, the Louvre shut down for a week, and about 60 police officers swarmed the place, searching for clues. But the only thing the public found when the museum reopened on August 29 was an empty space where “The Lady” used to be. People flocked to see the empty wall with its four sad little nails, as if staring at nothing was the new cool thing to do.
By December, they gave up hope and replaced her spot with a Raphael painting, figuring this absence was going to be a long one.
As the investigation floundered, heads began to roll. The director of the National Museums, Théophile Homolle, was put on leave, and the museum’s chief guard was shown the door. The press, of course, had a field day. The story made the front page of every newspaper, with all sorts of wild theories floating around. One paper even suggested that the loss of “The Lady” was a “national tragedy”—and offered a hefty reward to anyone with useful information. Other papers joined in, with rewards ranging from 10,000 to 50,000 francs. Even an anonymous art lover threw in 25,000 francs, probably hoping to redeem his own questionable taste in art.
As the hunt for “The Lady” dragged on, the investigation took a weird turn. A notorious kleptomaniac and tall-tale spinner began anonymously bragging about stealing ancient Phoenician statuettes from the Louvre, selling them to artists around Paris. His boasts caught the attention of the authorities, who, in their desperate search for leads, connected the dots—or rather, the dotted lines of suspicion—to Apollinaire.
Now, Apollinaire was a known figure in the Parisian art scene, often surrounded by eccentric characters and revolutionary ideas. When the police came knocking, they didn’t just want to talk about missing statuettes—they wanted to know if Apollinaire had anything to do with “The Lady” taking an extended vacation. The poor poet found himself tossed into La Santé prison, where he might have had time to ponder whether his poetic license extended to criminal charges.
Faced with serious accusations, Apollinaire did what any good friend would do—he panicked and implicated Picasso, suggesting that the artist had bought some of those stolen statuettes. Picasso, in turn, found himself dragged into the mess, despite his attempts to play dumb. In a hasty attempt to clear his name, Picasso returned the statuettes to the authorities, probably while sweating bullets and regretting every shady art deal he’d ever made.
When the two were confronted in court, Picasso famously denied knowing Apollinaire, who, in a moment of true camaraderie, kept Picasso’s name out of his mouth. The incident would haunt Picasso for years, as he cringed over his betrayal of a friend.
In the end, the whole investigation into Apollinaire and Picasso was a dead end, an absurd side plot in the already chaotic saga of the missing masterpiece. Neither had anything to do with the theft, but their brush with the law added yet another layer of surrealism to the story.
As the investigation stalled, Paris became a playground for humorists and caricaturists. They turned the whole fiasco into a running joke. Some even planned movies and plays about the theft, because why not profit off a national embarrassment? Meanwhile, fortune-tellers claimed they knew exactly where the painting was (spoiler: they didn’t), and art experts were convinced it had been stolen for ransom. After all, who in their right mind would try to sell the world’s most recognizable face?
Well, as it turns out, someone did—and that someone was a rather quirky character named Vincenzo Peruggia. Now, Vincenzo wasn’t your typical master criminal. Born in 1881 in Italy’s Como province, he was the son of a mason and had spent his youth learning the art of house painting. He moved to Paris in 1908 and found work with a company that did glazing and painting for—wait for it—the Louvre. Vincenzo even helped build the protective cases that housed the museum’s masterpieces. In other words, he knew his way around the place.
Unfortunately, Vincenzo also had a bit of a grudge against France, which he blamed for stealing Italy’s cultural treasures. So, in a move that was more patriotic than practical, he decided to “liberate” The Lady and bring her back to her homeland. In the early hours of August 21, 1911, Vincenzo strolled into the Louvre disguised as a worker. With the museum closed for the day, he had all the time in the world to pull off his heist. He removed the painting from its frame, tucked it under his smock, and walked out as casually as if he were carrying his lunch.
And where did he stash this world-famous masterpiece? Under his bed, of course! For the next two years, “The Lady” lay hidden in a wooden box beneath Vincenzo’s bed, probably wondering if this was some kind of cosmic joke.
But as anyone with a priceless painting under their bed knows, eventually, you need to figure out what to do with it. So, in late 1913, Vincenzo decided to bring “The Lady” back to Italy. He contacted a Florentine antique dealer named Alfredo Geri, offering to sell the painting for the modest sum of 500,000 francs. Intrigued, Geri reached out to the director of the Uffizi Gallery, and the two arranged to meet Vincenzo. When they finally met, Vincenzo led them to his hotel room, where he revealed the painting hidden in a wooden crate. The men were stunned—it was The Lady, all right! The painting was quickly authenticated, and the next day, Vincenzo was arrested as he prepared to make his grand return to France.
When questioned, Vincenzo freely admitted to the theft, explaining that he was just trying to return the painting to its “rightful” home. He was convinced that Napoleon had stolen it (though in reality, Leonardo da Vinci had brought it to France himself). Despite his bold crime, Vincenzo’s patriotism and the care he had taken with the painting earned him some leniency. He was sentenced to just over seven months in prison—though during his time behind bars, he received gifts from Italians who saw him as a hero. Bottles of wine, Italian specialties, and even cash poured in, making Vincenzo’s stint in prison more of a mini-vacation.
Meanwhile, the world rejoiced at the return of “The Lady.” She was given a hero’s welcome in Italy, paraded through Florence, Rome, and Milan before finally returning to Paris. When she was displayed at the Louvre again on January 4, 1914, 15,000 people showed up just to catch a glimpse of her.
And so, after a rather bizarre 28-month adventure under a bed, The Lady was back where she belonged.
So, what’s the lesson here? Well, if you ever find yourself in possession of a world-famous painting, maybe consider storing it somewhere other than under your bed. And remember, even the most audacious plans can be foiled by a little thing called common sense—or in Vincenzo’s case, by the simple fact that no one wanted to buy the most recognizable smile in the world.
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📖 Read the complete story by Noah Charney and find out all the details about the theft. Click HERE to get your hard cover edition and HERE to get the Kindle version.
✈️ Come to Paris and go visit "The Lady" at the Louvre:
As we wrap up this extraordinary tale of the Mona Lisa and her 28-month adventure, we hope it has sparked your excitement for the rich history of Paris and the mysteries surrounding its most iconic smile. We can't wait to welcome you in person to the City of Light, but until then, we'll keep the magic alive with more letters from Paris and now we hope you enjoy hearing this famous song of Nat King Cole inspired in our famous Lady. 🎼
Written by Pamela Breit F.
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