The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  “I’m sure,” Worth said, “It was concealed well. Ring me when you get inside.”

  His number faded from the screen. She hoped she was right and she hadn’t just found the door onto a Parisian’s back garden.

  Ellie rang Madame Jordan as she walked toward the Metro station. The lawyer confirmed that she had just received a message from Worth. The keys would be ready when Ellie arrived.

  Worth worked fast, Ellie thought, as the train slid into the station. Fifteen minutes and a change of Metro line later, Ellie emerged from the underground into the leafy business district around the Boulevard Haussmann.

  Madame Jordan was waiting when Ellie reached the law firm. There was a brightness in her eyes as she led Ellie through the hushed hallways to her office.

  “All the papers were signed last week.”

  “Who signed the papers? I understand the Champillon family died out last century.”

  “That is correct. The property is part of a complex trust. Mr. Worth was so enthusiastic, the trustees signed the deeds at once, even though we warned them that the plans were not in order. And since Mr. Worth has authorised the release of the funds, the property is now his.”

  “He has bought it already?”

  “Yes. The money has just been transferred to the trustees. Here are the keys.”

  Ellie opened the law firm’s envelope and looked at the ornate metal keys, over two hundred years old.

  Madame Jordan paused. She patted her glossy hair self-consciously. Ellie was surprised at the lawyer’s hesitance. When Madame Jordan spoke again she had the glow of a schoolgirl, “What sort of man is Monsieur Worth?”

  “I have not met him in person,” Ellie admitted.

  Madame Jordan arched a curious eyebrow, “He has such an unusual voice and manner. Very charming.”

  “Yes,” Ellie acknowledged. She remembered the first time she had spoken to Worth, and the effect of his deep, musical voice.

  “If he is ever in Paris -”

  “I will make sure he contacts you, Madame.”

  Madame Jordan broke into a wide smile. Ellie caught a glimpse of the lawyer’s computer screen. Had Madame Jordan googled Worth as well? There was little to discover on the internet.

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle,” Madame Jordan guided her to the front door, “And good luck.”

  “Au revoir, Madame.”

  Ellie reached the Boulevard Haussmann. Was she right? Or had Worth just bought the wrong property? What sort of man would be so impulsive? But what if Ellie was right? According to the events in the journal, everything had been destroyed in the laboratory fire. What was she about to find behind that door?

  She closed the keys into her palm. She couldn’t turn back now. She ran down the stairs to the Metro, glancing over the map for the quickest way to Le Marais.

  She approached the wall from the Rue de Rivoli this time. It took a keen eye to notice something was amiss. Ellie stood by the door handle with the open eyes. She took a deep breath. The lock was stiff and dirt shifted inside the keyhole. Taking the key out, she stared through the hole. Beyond the door was darkness, with only the faintest shimmer of green light in the distance.

  Ellie felt a pang of doubt again. Should she open this door? But she had her finger on the key, and the lock clicked suddenly. The door shifted and a cloud of dust rose from its edges. She was staring into a dark passage.

  The stench of damp earth was overwhelming. The stone walls of the passage were blackened and dull, covered with a mulch-like fuzz that might have once been moss. The noise of the city faded and in its place was a persistent rustling.

  Ellie stepped inside and the door closed behind her with a sharp click.

  She pressed her hands to the rough wooden surface of the door. It had just swung shut on its hinges and was not locked. She checked that she could open the door again, then continued toward the bright green glow ahead.

  The walls narrowed as the passage came to an end. Ahead were the remains of black iron railings and stone gateposts. She thought of the description in the journal.

  “The house on the Rue Belle is very grand, and lies behind tall gates.”

  Ellie pushed aside a low hanging branch and emerged into a courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard were trees, so massive their branches spread to the edges of the wall. Saplings rose high above the grasses. There were rose bushes too - with wild unfurling thorny limbs and brilliant fragrant roses. Even wildflowers rippled in the grass, as if their seeds had been carried over the rooftops. The scent of so many flowers and grass seeds was sweet and hypnotic. The tips of the grasses were as soft and light as feathers.

  She could hardly believe that such a wild and forgotten place existed in the very centre of Paris.

  Under moss and lichen, was a fountain, strangled by lilies and vines. The handle of an old water pump was hidden beneath foliage.

  “The gardens of the Rue Belle are most beautiful. Before the house is a charming fountain. Behind the fountain is the garden house - or laboratory - of my master, Monsieur Price.”

  Where was the laboratory? All that lay ahead was an ivy-covered wall.

  Ellie was suddenly aware of a bitter odour. It hung in the air, disturbing the fragrant Eden of wildflowers.

  Treading carefully through the high grass, Ellie came before a patch of blackened earth. The swaying grasses stopped at the edge of the burnt soil. The patch was the size and shape of a square building, as though a terrible brand was cast into the earth.

  Elise du Bois had written of this in her diary:

  “Already the news of the mysterious fire that consumed the laboratory of Monsieur Price has reached Reveille.”

  This was the site of the fire that had caused the hasty abandonment of the house. The burnt soil was like a warning from across the centuries. After all these years, the earth remained black.

  Ellie shivered despite the warm sunshine.

  If this was the garden house, then the ruined gates were on the edge of the old Rue Belle. The Champillon house must have been on her right, behind the trees.

  Ellie turned slowly. In the dim light behind a huge plane tree, rising like a faded stage set, was a tall house. The massive branches spread over the roof, sheltering the house from view. No wonder it could not be seen in the satellite maps.

  A breeze sent all the leaves and grasses rustling. The bitter stench of chemicals was lost beneath the sweet smell of the wildflowers. The wind lifted Ellie’s hair and the strands whipped across her face and caressed her neck. Sunlight danced on her eyelashes, making the house look even more unworldly.

  Ellie took a deep breath and waded through the tall grass.

  She climbed the cracked steps, took out the keys and tried each one. The lock had rusted and the wood was rotting. All she had to do was push the door and it fell open. She stepped inside.

  Plumes of dust floated around the hall like spirits. To her left was a set of stairs, strewn with cobwebs. According to the old house plans, these were the servants’ stairs. They allowed the servants to carry food and drinks between floors and to prepare the bedrooms and the master’s clothes, without ever disturbing the front of the house. On either side of the stairs were small rooms where servants had once prepared food or polished the silver.

  Ellie continued along the hall and found herself in a grand circular room. It was dark inside and there was much creaking and rustling from within and outside. She switched on her phone torch and the shimmering blue light revealed a chandelier and sweeping staircase.

  It was like discovering a sunken shipwreck, though it was not the ocean, but time and dust, which had claimed this house. In the front rooms the parquetry was faded and the ornate wallpaper was lost behind a veil of mold. The once intricate cornices cast twisting shadows and the lamp fittings were tarnished and dull. The one window that was not shuttered looked onto a curtain of vines and foliage, dripping down the outside walls.

  Returning to the main hall, Ellie swung the torch upwards. The h
igh oval dome was as silent as a ruin.

  Grit and dirt crunched under her feet as Ellie began to climb the staircase. She walked around the circular landing, in and out of deserted rooms.

  The house was deathly still. But then, through the darkness, she saw a table and chair in the corner of a room, and a wardrobe door, slightly ajar.

  Ellie’s heart quickened. Was someone living here after all? A garment was hanging inside the wardrobe. Stepping closer she saw the coat had been so eaten away it was barely more than a few threads. The cobwebs in the wardrobe had themselves become thickened with the fine dust that filled the air.

  No, no one had been here for a long time.

  The desk was hidden under a thick fur of dust and the seat of the chair had rotted away. A framed picture was above the desk. Behind the mold-spotted glass was a sketch of a pyramid, half buried in sand.

  Egypt, 1799, read the inscription.

  Ellie took a step backwards across the stringy rug. Had the house really been abandoned for so long? Her heart was racing with fear and excitement.

  Next to the desk was a door. Ellie tried the handle. The door gave way suddenly, sending a cloud of dust into the study that left tears streaming from her eyes. She had found the servants’ staircase again. A shutter was open far above and weak daylight streamed down the staircase.

  Ellie bowed her head to avoid bumping the low ceiling as she walked up the twisting stairs. At the very top of the stairs was a door. Ellie stepped into a simple whitewashed room.

  The last room in the house. The maid’s room. Elise’s room.

  There were no shutters on the tall window. The glass was almost clear.

  The attic was so high, she could see over the wall. With the white sunbeams lighting the silhouette of a church dome and the old buildings of Le Marais in the distance, it was easy to imagine herself back in the nineteenth century. Back in a Paris where horses and carts rattled through the streets, where the rich strode around in fine coats and the beggars wore their cast-off clothes. In a time when there was so much to discover and Paris stood at the dawn of the scientific age.

  Ellie had the strange feeling she had come home at last.

  Then a siren wailed in the distance. At the same time Ellie’s phone rang.

  “Mr. Price,” she said quickly, then realised her mistake.

  He paused, “Worth,” he corrected her. He cleared his throat, “What have you found?”

  “It is 15 Rue Belle. The courtyard is overgrown and the garden has run wild. The house is almost a ruin but it is standing. I am in the attic right now.”

  “Wonderful,” Worth said in that alluring silky voice, “But what of the laboratory?”

  Ellie’s eyes fell to the patch of burnt earth below.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Just blackened earth. No weeds, no flowers. Nothing at all.”

  Worth was silent.

  Ellie ran her hand through her hair. Her job was done. She had once again found what Worth wanted, “I will send the keys to you now.”

  “There is no need. I will meet you at the house.”

  Ellie paused, “But aren’t you in Switzerland?”

  “No, Ellie. I am in Paris. I have been here for a week.”

  A frown wrinkled her brow. Worth had been in Paris too? Why hadn’t he said so? It was much easier to meet in person than to communicate by phone and email. She had assumed he was far away when they spoke.

  “I will be there at seven o’clock,” Worth said, “And I look forward to meeting you, Ellie, face to face at last,” his number faded.

  Ellie fought back a feeling of unease. This whole task had been strange from beginning to end. The house, the journal, the wall, the trustees. Something very unusual was going on. Why did Worth want the house? It would take a lot of money to restore it and there had clearly been a bad chemical fire in the courtyard. There was nothing of value here, apart from the house’s macabre association with the long-dead and possibly mythical scientist, Albert Price. And now Worth wanted to meet her.

  But maybe she was worrying unnecessarily. At seven o’clock it would still be daylight. Ellie was in the middle of the busiest part of Paris. She would meet Worth on the pavement outside and hand him the keys. If he wanted to explore the house after sunset, he could do so. Her role was over, until the next time Mr. Worth called.

  And Ellie had to admit, she was curious to meet the mysterious Mr. Worth face to face.

  A pale beam of sunlight pierced the clouds. Ellie paced around the attic. She took the journal from her bag and sat on the windowsill. The book fell open to the last page.

  “All things are for a reason and all things align in time.”

  Ellie glanced at her phone. The date was 9 July. Why was that date so familiar? She had seen it written somewhere recently.

  She had not read the journal from beginning to end. Now she had several hours before Worth arrived. She turned to the first page of the journal.

  Elise du Bois wrote:

  “I began this volume as a daily journal. Now, as I lie in my sickroom, watching the sun set over the fields of Reveille, it seems more important than ever to write a full account of these events from the beginning.

  “Let my readers be assured of the accuracy of this account, as wild and curious as it may appear. I was present at all events described and made notes of my conversations with Monsieur Price and Monsieur Champillon, shortly afterwards.

  “I have omitted the names of certain compounds, and the sources of such items, for reasons that will become apparent, as well as the full names of certain individuals and banking families.

  “Firstly, I set out the strange events which led me to 15 Rue Belle, Paris...”

  Ellie paused as she read on:

  “...that fateful day of 9 July 1820.”

  Original Text of the Journal

  of Elise du Bois

  1820

  Chapter One

  I was born in the year 1802, in the village of Reveille on the banks of the River Seine. Both my parents died when I was an infant and I was taken into the care of the nuns of the convent of St Francis. The convent, which is close to the medieval monastery of the same name, is well known for its gardens and herbarium and for the skill of the brothers and sisters in the preparation of medicines and the curing of disease.

  Perhaps it was my insignificance that made me dream of a great vocation. While my fellow orphans fidgeted and whispered in church, I listened to the tales of the saints and martyrs with rapt attention. I was utterly enthralled by their bravery and adventures, and stood before their statues with awe. It seemed impossible that I should have an ordinary life. But how could I devote my life to a higher calling? As I grew older, it seemed that the convent might provide me with this chance.

  The orphans were often told to weed the gardens of the monastery. I was the most eager helper. When I showed my interest, one of the nuns taught me the name of each plant and their properties. I proved useful in running errands, and the monks soon allowed me to collect, dry and measure the herbs. I learned to read and write, a rare skill among the orphans. Later Brother Thomas let me sit in the apothecary and watch him mix the medicines. I soon added new names to my pantheon of immortals - not just saints, but physicians, and those with the ancient knowledge of learning.

  In my mind, I began to see my great future. I would assist the monks in their important work.

  Only once did I invoke the anger of the nuns and monks. The herbarium was one of the oldest in France but our greatest treasure was the open fields and woodland on the edge of Reveille. Brother Thomas had been trying to re-create a medicine from an ancient book. He learned that the cultivated roses of the garden did not have the same properties as the roses in the forest. For the medicine to be effective, he needed a wild rose that grew on shady hillsides. The nuns were sent out to find this elusive rose, and I, at age eleven, was allowed to accompany them.

  We began our sear
ch one afternoon, fanning out along the riverbank. It was late summer and many kinds of flowers bloomed along the river. The sun cast our shadows far into the fields and there was a great feeling of anticipation. The wild rose was like a legend. Did it really exist or was it an accident of nature? The nuns searched the thickets and meadows, but I knew we would not find it there. When no one was looking, I ran along the path under the trees.

  I walked for an hour or more. I came across glades and valleys and streams. I saw my first wild rose on a hillside, but it was not the one I sought. Brother Thomas needed a red and white rose, a rare blend of two wild strains. The sun was sinking when I finally saw the roses shivering along the side of the hill. I climbed up, cut them, and placed them in my basket. I had found what we needed!

  But when I turned, all I saw was a maze of trees. I felt a knot of fear in my stomach. I had no idea where I was. I had run so far I had not thought about how to get back. I started to breathe fast, in and out, and my heart thudded in my chest. I clutched my basket and stared from hillside to hillside. What could I do?

  Swirling clouds covered the sun. I could not see the meadows or the river or the tower of the convent. I heard my own breathing as I walked on and on through the shadows.

  The sun set and I was all alone. I stumbled and tripped. I did not realise this endless forest existed. Where was I going? Would I ever find my way home?

  At last I saw a light ahead. It was the cottage of a farmer and his wife. They took me back to the convent in their cart, as I held the roses close.

  I was tired and scared, but proud I’d found the rose. The nuns however, did not share my sense of victory and scolded me all night.

  “But I found it,” I insisted, “I did it.”

  “And what good would it be if the wolves had eaten you?”

  “What if bandits had found you instead of Farmer Jean?”

  Didn’t they understand that none of this mattered? I had found the elusive rose!