On October 19, 2025, the Louvre Museum in Paris became the scene of a high-profile daylight heist that has since captivated the world—not only for the audacious theft of the French crown jewels but also for the viral fame of an unexpected bystander. As French police scrambled to recover the missing treasures, a single photograph shot outside the museum sparked a parallel global mystery, introducing the world to the now-iconic figure known as "Fedora Man."
The theft itself was nothing short of cinematic. In broad daylight, thieves made off with a collection of tiaras, necklaces, and brooches once owned by 19th-century French royalty, including Marie-Amélie, Queen Hortense, Empress Marie-Louise of Austria, and Empress Eugénie, according to the Associated Press. These pieces, crafted by elite Parisian ateliers, were showcased in the Louvre's Apollo Gallery until that fateful Sunday. Yet, as the story unfolded, it became clear that the jewels’ history—and the investigation into their disappearance—would raise questions that reach far beyond the museum’s gilded halls.
Within hours of the heist, police charged suspects, but investigators voiced concern that the stolen jewels, too famous to sell intact, might be broken up or melted down for their precious metals and stones. The gems themselves have a storied past: sapphires from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), diamonds from India and Brazil, pearls from the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean, and emeralds from Colombia. As the AP reports, these origins trace a colonial-era map of global extraction and imperial networks—an uncomfortable legacy for France and other Western nations whose museums brim with artifacts of similar provenance.
"There is obviously no excuse for theft," said Emiline C.H. Smith, a criminologist at the University of Glasgow who studies heritage crime, in comments to the Associated Press. "But many of these objects are entangled with violent, exploitative, colonial histories." The Louvre’s own catalog, for instance, describes the stolen diadem of Queen Marie-Amélie as set with natural, unheated "Ceylon sapphires" and diamonds in gold, yet provides scant detail about how these gems were mined, moved, or acquired. Experts argue that the lack of transparency is no accident, as museums often sidestep the uncomfortable acquisition histories of their collections.
Pascal Blanchard, a historian of France’s colonial past, draws a sharp distinction between French craftsmanship and the colonial supply chains that delivered these treasures to Paris. "The jewels were made in France by French artisans," he explained, "but many stones came via colonial circuits and were products of colonial production." These networks, shaped by empires that siphoned wealth from Africa, Asia, and South America, often relied on exploitative labor practices and, at times, outright slavery.
While the Louvre robbery is a criminal act, it has also reignited a broader debate about the ethics of museum collections and the restitution of cultural heritage. France, like Britain and other Western powers, faces mounting pressure to address the origins of its museum treasures. The case of India’s Koh-i-Noor diamond—now set in the British crown and subject to repeated calls for repatriation—serves as a high-profile example of these disputes. As the AP notes, the question is not just whether an object was "bought" but whether those who sold it had the power or freedom to do so under imperial rule.
France’s own efforts at restitution have been cautious and limited. President Emmanuel Macron’s pledge to return parts of Africa’s heritage led to a law enabling the return of 26 royal treasures to Benin and items to Senegal. Madagascar also recovered the crown of Queen Ranavalona III through a specific process. Yet critics point out that French law generally forbids the removal of state-held objects unless Parliament makes a special exception, effectively blocking most restitution claims. Under former Louvre chief Jean-Luc Martinez, the museum’s narrow definition of "looted" objects and its demand for near-legal levels of proof have further chilled efforts at returning contested artifacts.
Erin L. Thompson, an art-crime scholar in New York, argues that museums should do more than simply display their treasures. "A decolonized approach would name where such stones came from, how the trade worked, who profited and who paid—and share authorship with origin communities," she told the AP. Egyptian archaeologist Monica Hanna echoed this sentiment, calling the public outcry over the Louvre theft "profoundly ironic" given the ongoing debates about restitution. She and others believe the heist will trigger action across Western museums and fuel demands for greater transparency.
Amid the swirl of controversy, another story quietly took hold—a tale of viral fame born from a single image. On the day of the heist, 15-year-old Pedro Elias Garzon Delvaux visited the Louvre with his mother and grandfather, unaware of the unfolding crime. As police cordoned off the museum, AP photographer Thibault Camus snapped a photo of Pedro striding past officers in a distinctive three-piece suit and fedora, a nod to classic detectives like Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot. The internet quickly dubbed him "Fedora Man," and the image racked up over five million views as users speculated about his identity—was he a detective, an insider, or even an AI-generated figure?
Pedro, who lives with his family in Rambouillet, 30 kilometers from Paris, decided to let the mystery simmer. "I didn’t want to say immediately it was me," he explained to the AP. "With this photo there is a mystery, so you have to make it last." For several days he remained silent, watching as theories multiplied online. Even friends and relatives hesitated to believe it was him until they spotted his mother in the background of the shot. When he finally revealed his identity, the story only grew. Friends and family from Colombia, Austria, and beyond sent messages, and Pedro’s Instagram profile went from private to public as journalists came calling.
Pedro’s style, inspired by 20th-century history and the elegance of fictional detectives, is more than a costume. "I like to be chic," he said. "I go to school like this." At his no-uniform school, his sartorial choices have begun to influence classmates—one even showed up wearing a tie. The fedora, however, is reserved for special occasions: weekends, holidays, and museum visits. Pedro is amused by his sudden fame and unfazed by the attention. "I’m waiting for people to contact me for films," he joked. "That would be very funny."
In a saga marked by theft and questions of cultural legacy, "Fedora Man" has become a gentler counterpoint—a reminder that art, style, and a good mystery can belong to ordinary life. One photograph turned Pedro into a symbol, but meeting him confirms he is, reassuringly, real. As the Louvre and other institutions reckon with the shadows of their collections, the world is left to wonder: What stories—hidden or accidental—will the next great museum mystery reveal?
