The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  Brother Thomas took the roses and I was sent to bed without dinner. The nuns forgave me after a few days. I soon tended the garden again.

  I have never forgotten the emotions of that day, neither the excitement of the search, the blind pursuit of knowledge, the fear and panic that I had gone too far, the sickening feeling there was no way back nor the ultimate pride, that I had succeeded.

  * * * * *

  This background is to explain my role in an incident that occurred one night in March, 1820, during a particularly wild and savage storm. The winter had lasted longer than usual and the roads by the river were covered by treacherous ice. The moon that night was hidden behind thick cloud and the rain that swept in from the fields was so heavy, it was impossible to see beyond the convent walls. The rain pummeled the roof and fell in torrents onto the cobblestones outside. I was glad I was inside, although the howling wind disturbed my sleep. Then, some time after midnight, I was awoken by a violent crash.

  More sounds followed, swallowed by the wind and the rain.

  A short while later, a candle appeared at the door of the dormitory. Sister Agatha was beckoning to me. I rose from my bed and joined her. As we hurried through the cold stone halls, she told me a coach had overturned on the road. The coachman was dead. Two passengers were injured, one very badly.

  We crossed the courtyard to the monastery. Beyond the gate, a horse was rearing and screaming. In the swirling light of a lantern, two men were struggling to free the horse from the shattered remains of a fine carriage. The body of the carriage was upturned, and its wheels were in the air.

  The icy wind whipped our skirts as we ran through the colonnade. Entering the hall of the monastery, I held my breath as I saw the two men lying on the floor.

  One man was unconscious. He wore a rich blue velvet coat and a striped waistcoat. He had a long, lined face and snow white hair, and even in repose he had great authority. There was little that we could do for him, and he passed out of this world as we watched. Brother Thomas closed the man’s eyes. One of the brothers lifted the man from the floor, placing his lifeless body on a stone bench. The man looked so out of place in our simple hall. I remember thinking the greatest and the poorest join each other in the dust of time.

  Sister Agatha summoned me to the younger man. His face was deathly pale. He was confused and crying out in pain.

  “His leg is broken,” one of the brothers said.

  Brother Thomas was examining the break. The stranger’s words came in gasps. He was on his way to Paris. The coachman had taken the bend too fast. His companion was a lawyer from Saint-Germain. His own name was Jean-Louis Champillon.

  Champillon held onto my hand and lowered his eyelids.

  The gash in his leg was bleeding. Champillon began to shake violently. Brother Thomas told me to get a tincture of laudanum to calm him. The rain lashed my face as I raced across the courtyard to the apothecary. I reached the doorway and unlocked the door. I lit a candle with a shaking hand and went over to the cabinet. The medicines on the shelf were powerful and too much or too little could have fatal consequences. I found the laudanum, then ran back through the rain to the monastery.

  Returning, I found Monsieur Champillon argumentative and in great pain. He resisted the laudanum, until Brother Thomas forced it to his lips. As the drug took effect, the patient fell into an opiate slumber. Brother Thomas and Brother John laid out their medical instruments. Sister Agatha told me to fetch a bowl of water. I stayed in the shadows as the operation progressed. Brother Thomas set the bone with Sister Agatha’s help.

  At last peace fell upon the room. Champillon slept calmly, while his companion lay motionless in his eternal sleep. Brother Thomas nodded at his work. Sister Agatha and I took the bowls to the yard. The rain washed away the water, now red with blood. A break in the clouds revealed a weak pre-dawn sky.

  Monsieur Champillon stayed in Reveille for a month. Brother Thomas gave him the finest room in the monastery. But we soon learned how difficult our distinguished guest was. Champillon never ceased to complain. The room had draughts and the stench of our candles made him sick. The stone floor was cold and our rugs were rough. The drapes around his bed were moth-eaten. Sister Agatha found that moths had eaten some of the fabric, so we had to use our best curtains to hang around Champillon’s bed. When he asked for books, Brother Thomas brought him the most precious volumes in our library. It was not long before Champillon criticised these too, telling a startled Brother Thomas the books were nothing but “medieval rubbish.”

  Brother John had studied at the Sorbonne when he was young and was the most learned monk in the monastery. Any attempts at conversation with Champillon however, were met with a sharp rebuke and a steely stare.

  One afternoon, Champillon’s valet arrived and brought him new clothes and books.

  “The countryside is unbearable,” I overheard Champillon declare, “A century behind Paris.”

  I breathed in deeply and walked fast along the hall. We had all learned to bite our tongue, since Champillon had come to Reveille.

  It was my task to bring Champillon his daily medicine. Brother Thomas varied the dosage and the type of medicine as Champillon’s health improved. I checked and measured the medicine carefully in the apothecary and again in the sick room.

  By the end of his recovery Champillon was refusing to speak to anyone. I was surprised therefore when Champillon addressed me directly one afternoon.

  “What is in that medicine, girl?”

  “Withania somnifera to calm your nerves and calendula to fight the infection.”

  Although his leg was healing well, he had developed a fever, giving his face a constant frown and unhealthy sheen.

  “How do you know about these things?”

  “I have assisted the brothers and nuns for many years.”

  “Many years? You are only a girl.”

  “I am seventeen, sir.”

  Champillon muttered something. I did not listen.

  “I shall take my medicine now,” he said.

  “I have not measured it, Monsieur. It is very important that I am accurate.”

  Champillon raised an eyebrow. I ignored his displeased glance and concentrated on my task. I watched the droplets fall into the glass, no more and no less than Brother Thomas prescribed. No matter how unpleasant Champillon was, I did not want to poison him.

  Champillon took the medicine grudgingly and resumed reading his book.

  A few days later a carriage arrived. With his leg now healed and his fever subsided, Champillon strode out of the monastery as finely dressed as when he had arrived. He did not say farewell to any of us or leave any message of thanks for all we had done for him. None of us missed him.

  That summer I turned eighteen. Administering the medicine for Champillon had given me great confidence. The monks were pleased with my work and trusted me more and more. I was now learning to distill the essences from plants and mix medicines on my own. Brother Thomas had often said that I should train with him in the apothecary. Each day I hoped I would be called to help him.

  When Sister Agatha summoned me to her room one morning, I assumed that Brother Thomas had made his decision. My footsteps were light as I climbed the staircase. I smiled as I glimpsed the herb garden from the tower window, dreaming of the secrets nature would reveal to me, once I began my training.

  When I entered the room, however, I found Sister Agatha, reading a letter. She placed it on the table. A golden seal glinted in the sunlight.

  “We have some wonderful news,” she said, “Monsieur Champillon has written to us from Paris.”

  “Monsieur Champillon?”

  “Yes, Elise. The gentleman we nursed back to health.”

  I was surprised by the glow in her face. Sister Agatha had complained loudly when Champillon was with us. Each night she had muttered darkly about his moods, cursing him terribly.

  “Has he thanked us?” it seemed unlikely.

  “No, Elise. He has written to us
about you.”

  “About me?”

  “He wants you to work in his household in Paris. You are going to be a maid in Monsieur Champillon’s house!”

  “A maid?”

  “Yes, Elise! You are going to Paris!”

  The sun spun in the sky. I stared at the poplar trees near the river. I must have walked to the window for I remember seeing the herb garden below. Soon it would be time to harvest the seeds. I had to tend the plants. I should be out there now.

  “Do you understand, Elise?” Sister Agatha said firmly, as though she had noticed my silence at last, “You should be very grateful for this chance. Brother Thomas and I are.”

  I turned around, “Brother Thomas knows?”

  “Yes. Brother Thomas and I are in agreement. Monsieur Champillon is a man of impeccable family and his house is in one of Paris’ finest districts. He has been very generous to us, Elise. Not only has he agreed to take you, he will provide Brother Thomas with new books for his library.”

  “He will give Brother Thomas new books?”

  “Monsieur Champillon is a learned man, Elise. Our library has suffered over the years and Brother Thomas is in need of new books. This is a great thing for us.”

  How far away was Paris? I had never thought about it.

  “You do understand, Elise?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. My heart was empty.

  “You will leave tomorrow. Monsieur Champillon’s valet is traveling to Paris tomorrow and there will be room for you in the carriage. This is most generous of Monsieur Champillon. I hope you do realise, Elise.”

  I straightened my shoulders. I had entered this room with dreams of sunlight and woodlands, of saints who devoted their lives to a higher calling and physicians who discovered the mysteries of our existence. But now, my life was just like anyone else’s. The grey, ordinary destiny of humanity replaced my dreams.

  Brother Thomas met me in the colonnade, congratulating me on my good fortune. I felt hollow and my throat was dry. How could I tell him that my heart was aching? I merely smiled and hid my sadness, anxious that he should not see my true feelings. I must not be selfish. I would face this new future and be strong.

  The arrangement was made. There was nothing I could do. The other orphans helped me pack my belongings, their eyes full of curiosity and envy. Champillon had gone from the most hated man in the monastery to a great benefactor. The girls talked all afternoon about his clothes and his carriage. They had noticed things I never had, like the gold watch he carried and the emerald rings upon his fingers. His house was grand, they whispered, just like the chateau of the old king, although none of them had ever seen it, or any chateau for that matter. I realised that none of them shared my dreams, or love for Reveille. I would gladly have given my place to any of them.

  At twilight I slipped out of the convent and into the herb garden. Unlocking the gate, I strolled under the old stone arch to the fields beyond. The sky was blue-violet, and a golden moon was rising over the hills. The air was sweet with the scent of the rustling grasses. Wildflowers, some blooming only for a day, shivered in the evening breeze. I walked through the fields, until the monastery and convent were only a dim silhouette behind me. I breathed in over and over, wanting to savour the scent and the taste of the countryside. The forest on the hillside was dim and silent and the tree branches were like lace against the setting sun. The meadows rolled out to the horizon, where the river glittered through banks of poplar trees. I tried to capture each part of the landscape in my mind, so that I could imagine it, wherever I might go.

  I walked on and on. But I soon felt the ties that bound me to the convent. I walked back through the fields, trailing my fingers through the soft grasses.

  When I walked under the archway to the herb garden, I closed the gate firmly. I wandered through the rows of plants, knowing that I was doing all of this for the last time.

  The next day I stood on the road outside the convent, wearing a cloak that was not mine and a bonnet that did not fit. I had only one bundle of clothes. Sister Agatha and the younger girls stood with me, watching until Champillon’s carriage appeared around the bend of the river. The girls crowded around as I climbed inside. Champillon’s valet was the only other passenger. He was a good-looking young man in a fine jacket and silk breeches. He gave the orphans a brief, horrified glance and looked away. He said nothing to me and stared at a point above my head for the entire journey.

  I watched the countryside for as long as I could - the green fields, grey-green poplars, yellow fields and the rivers which reflected the pale blue sky. We passed through Reveille. We came to another village, with so many stone houses I wondered if we were in Paris. I realised there were many bridges and churches on the way. We stopped at an inn for lunch. The valet went inside while I ate my bread in the yard. The carriage continued on, until late in the afternoon I saw a dark shape on the horizon, parts dim and sinister, parts mirage-like where the sun pierced the clouds.

  “Paris,” the valet said, a smile lifting the corners of his lips.

  We approached a wide river, filled with the skeleton masts of ships. The Seine was a sluggish brown, so unlike the swiftly flowing waters of Reveille. The bridges that crossed the river were hulking and inhuman, in whose shadows men toiled in all sorts of workshops. The colour gradually drained from the world, replaced by one, miserable tone - the brown of roads, bricks, buildings, horses and tired faces.

  Champillon’s valet sprang to life when we passed through the city gates. There were people everywhere, milling like cattle, crossing each other’s paths, pushing and shambling. The mud of the streets smelt foul, although the wealthy strode along in their fine clothes, even stopping to laugh and chat with each other, while beggars crouched nearby. The noise of carts, animals and people was deafening. I could taste the grit and the smoke of the city on my lips.

  We passed houses, squares and grand palaces. At last we came to a stop by a set of stone gates. The valet stepped out. Two men helped the carriage driver unload boxes from the carriage.

  “Is that Monsieur Champillon’s house?” I asked, looking at the building beyond the gates.

  “That is the stable block,” the valet said sourly, “This is not a boulevard. It is a lane.”

  The men smirked.

  “She is going to the Rue Belle,” the valet told the carriage driver. The valet and the two men walked through the gates as the carriage lurched off.

  I saw the river once more but mostly we journeyed through endless streets. We trotted beneath huge trees as the sky grew darker. Unease spread over me like a chill. I had lost all sense of direction. I sat up straight, determined that no one would know my fear.

  The carriage slowed again.

  “The Rue Belle is there,” the driver said. He opened the door of the carriage and gave me my bundle. He seemed tired, as though he had much to do, “The place behind the gates.”

  I stood in the quiet street. The sun was sinking beneath the rooftops and the houses behind the railings were silent.

  “Up there,” the driver repeated, as he drove away.

  At the top of the hill was a fine townhouse. There was no light in any of the windows. When I tried to open the gate, I found it was locked. A minute passed and it seemed like an eternity. The coach had gone. My unease returned, stronger than before. Was I in the right place? How could I tell one house from another? Who could I turn to if I was lost? I was so dizzy the ground seemed to rise up to meet me. I breathed fast, telling myself to stay calm.

  Then I saw a shape in the darkness. A woman was moving quickly across the courtyard.

  “Elise?” she called out.

  I nodded with relief and she unlocked the gate.

  “This way.”

  I followed the woman across the yard. I caught glimpses of water bubbling in a dark fountain, a water pump, the dim shape of hedges and rose bushes and a large garden house.

  “Come here, Elise,” the woman was standing at the servants’ entrance to the
main house. I stepped through the door after her.

  My senses were at once filled with a delicious smell. The woman picked up a candelabra, and as she moved, the scent followed the flickering flames.

  “Haven’t you smelt beeswax candles before?” she raised an eyebrow, “Or do you only have tallow in the country?”

  “We make our own candles,” I said quickly.

  In the convent, we made our candles from animal fat. I had never realised how strong they smelt compared to the beeswax. No wonder Champillon had complained. The woman lit another candle in the narrow hall and the sweet smell grew stronger.

  “The candles are kept here, and must be used sparingly,” she pointed to a room full of glinting silver, “But I will explain all that. Come this way.”

  More scents met my nose as I followed her into a passage. Sweet, crisp smells that matched the gleaming floors and shining tables.

  We entered a huge circular room. In the light of the candelabra, I saw a sweeping staircase and a dome, high above.

  “Now, Elise, my name is Madame Bourget and I am Monsieur Champillon’s head housekeeper. I must leave you shortly and return to Monsieur Champillon’s house. Your carriage was very late.”

  “Is this not Monsieur Champillon’s house?” I remember asking.

  “This is one of Monsieur Champillon’s houses,” Madame Bourget said with a smile. I had the feeling she was proud of her master’s wealth and pleased with my ignorance of it, “He resides on the Rue de Rivoli near the Louvre Palace. He has let this house to a tenant, Monsieur Albert Price. Monsieur Price is from Switzerland.”

  “Sister Agatha did not tell me I was to have a new master.”

  “That is so, Elise. Monsieur Price arrived last month, with one servant, Pierre. It seems Pierre -” Madame Bourget hesitated and a frown crinkled her brow, “left Monsieur Price last week.”

  She continued, “Marianne, a maid from our household, came to attend Monsieur Price on Thursday. Monsieur Champillon has requested Marianne return to him and instructed that you -” she gave me a sharp look, “are to take her place here.”