The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  “And the other maids?”

  “You are the only maid.”

  I fought back a feeling of unease. I had never been a maid before. How could I run a house so large? I glanced around the grand hall and the staircase.

  Madame Bourget must have seen my concern, “I understand from Marianne that Monsieur Price is not a demanding master. In fact there are long periods when he is not at home at all.”

  “Is he at home now?”

  She paused, “It would not seem so. He keeps unusual hours and you may not see him often, as you would a regular master. I had hoped to speak with him this evening. A letter was sent yesterday explaining that you are replacing Marianne. I see the letter in the study but it is alas, unopened,” the frown returned.

  I had the feeling that Madame Bourget disapproved of the mysterious circumstances in Price’s house.

  “Do you know how to light a chandelier?” Madame Bourget asked, “You must lower it here, by a pulley.”

  I watched as she pulled down the huge chandelier, suspended from the high dome. I tried it several times and Madame Bourget nodded with approval.

  “The chandelier should only be lit if your master requires it. Normally, only light the lamps.”

  Madame Bourget walked around the edge of the room, setting small lamps aglow. Her dress was finer than any I had seen in Reveille. In the glow of the candelabra she had an attractive, but hard face, with tiny lines around her eyes.

  “Are you familiar with the Argand lamp?”

  My expression must have answered her, for she went on, “The lamps are filled with whale oil and must be lit and turned down each night. Whale oil is also very expensive. Let me know if the lamps run low and I will unlock the oil cabinet for you.”

  I stared at the lamps in the hall. I had never seen such dazzling light.

  “This is the main entrance hall and ahead is the front door. You should greet any guests that arrive and show them into the sitting room, while you fetch your master. I will light the lamps in here tonight, in the event your master returns home.”

  The Argand lamps glowed to life, revealing a room as beautiful as its scent. The parquetry floor shone and the rug was richly patterned. The tables gleamed and the chairs were covered in brightly striped silk. Mirrors around the room reflected the light. The wallpaper had a delicate floral pattern which unfurled across the walls like a garden.

  “I expect you to dust these rooms each day and mop the halls. There is no need to hang out the carpets. We have done so in spring. Once a week you should clean all glass, silver and mirrors. I shall show you where we keep the tea leaves.”

  “Tea leaves?”

  “For cleaning. I will explain,” she sighed.

  I followed Madame Bourget into another room.

  “Tables, chairs and all wooden surfaces should be polished once a week. The fireplace in the drawing room is to be lit each evening, unless it is exceptionally hot, and the lamps in the hall and downstairs rooms should be lit on dusk. However if Monsieur Price is not at home, conserve the firewood and candles.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  We had come back to the grand hall. Madame Bourget began to climb the staircase, “Our gardeners visit each week. I understand Monsieur Price dines out, so it is unlikely you will need to prepare meals. Purchase all fresh food in the market in Le Marais.”

  I followed her around the landing.

  “This is the main bedroom. Make sure you turn down the bed each evening.”

  As Madame Bourget continued, I paused by the window. The square building lay below. Madame Bourget joined me.

  “Monsieur Price is a man of science and he often works in the garden house across the courtyard.”

  “Am I also to clean the garden house?”

  “No, I understand that Monsieur Price has specifically asked that it be left alone.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Due to his irregular hours, Price communicates mainly in writing. Monsieur Champillon said you can read?”

  “Yes, the nuns taught me, in Reveille.”

  “Monsieur Price may give you a list of items to acquire to assist him in his work. He leaves the lists in the kitchen each morning.”

  “What sort of items?”

  “Powders and herbs. For his research.”

  I nodded, although I was curious.

  Madame Bourget walked into another room. Her manner was haughty, but whenever she mentioned Price, she lost some of her self-assuredness.

  In all the rooms we had passed so far, I had seen no evidence of my new master’s existence. But in here the desk was covered with papers and the shelves were stacked with books. An inkpot was on one side of the desk, and a pen stained the blotting paper. The wardrobe door was ajar, and inside hung a blue velvet coat.

  On the wall were two pictures. One was of a huge triangular building surrounded by sand. The inscription beneath said, The Great Pyramid of Giza, Egypt 1799.

  The second was a sketch of two figures. One sat upon a throne and wore a high curved crown. The other had a circle above its head. The seated figure was holding a staff and a strange amulet. Over the figures were columns of symbols, like writing, but made up of tiny drawings. And most alarming of all, both the figures in the illustrations had not the heads of men, but of birds.

  Below was an inscription, Thoth and Ra.

  Instinctively I stepped away.

  “Monsieur Price is a student of antiquity,” Madame Bourget also kept her distance, “I understand he served with Napoleon’s army in Egypt. These monsters are their deities I believe.”

  There was a sinister power about the figures and the strange inscriptions over their heads. Madame Bourget seemed to share my wariness. We both left the room quickly.

  “Of course, Monsieur Champillon was in Egypt as well,” Madame Bourget went on as we returned to the landing, “He has many Egyptian treasures in his cabinets.”

  I placed my hand on the bannister and looked over the grand hall below.

  “You will not usually take the main staircase,” Madame Bourget gave me a sharp look. She opened a door on the landing, “These are the servants’ stairs. As much as possible, you should remain out of sight. Come, I will show you your quarters.”

  We entered the narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs, Madame Bourget opened the door to a small room. There was no wallpaper or fine furniture, just bare beams and a simple bed and chair. I liked the room. It reminded me of the barns in Reveille.

  “This is where you will sleep, Elise. Here is the bed, basin, window.”

  A creamy moon hung above the rooftops outside. Below I saw the garden house - Monsieur Price’s laboratory - again.

  “Is that the only dress you have brought with you?” Madame Bourget’s brow furrowed as she stared over my borrowed cloak and dress, “You cannot be seen in that. I will send over a dress tomorrow.”

  She gazed around the room, “That is everything. I must return to Monsieur Champillon. He has many important people attending dinner tonight.”

  I thought of Champillon’s cold eyes and his haughty valet and imagined his overfed, pompous friends. Yet, I would have gladly joined his household at that moment.

  “I really do not know where Monsieur Price is,” Madame Bourget said as we walked down the staircase, “I suggest you make yourself a small meal and wait up for a few hours. If your master does not return, go to bed. Await his instructions tomorrow morning.”

  We emerged in the narrow passage near the servants’ entrance. Madame Bourget blew out the sweet-scented candles. The after-light of the flames lasted a moment in the dim hall. The few flickering lamps cast strange shadows on our faces.

  Madame Bourget opened the door and gave me a glance of concern and pity, “I will return next week. I wish you well, Elise.”

  She walked into the darkness.

  The house seemed emptier and larger than before. I lit a candle. I returned to the grand hall and wandered through each room, looking at the p
ortraits and the fine furniture. Near the servants’ stairs was a kitchen and in the cupboard I found bread, cheese and ham.

  Nine o’clock came and there was no sign of my master. I searched the rooms again, in case he had come in while I was in the kitchen. The house was deserted. I dimmed the Argand lamps, watching the flames disappear into the glassy oil. I closed a shutter in the study. Then I returned to the kitchen and climbed the servants’ stairs.

  I was glad to reach the attic and close the door behind me. I blew out the candle. The room was bright under the light of the moon.

  When I looked out my window all I saw were rooftops and walls and chimneys as far as the horizon. I was trapped in a maze of stone. I felt as frightened as the time I had been lost in the forest. I had come so far and had no idea how to get home.

  I lay down on the bed and tried not to think.

  So began my time in that strange house on the Rue Belle.

  Chapter Two

  Sleep takes away all worries. Even now, in my sickbed in the convent of Reveille, I have that moment of bliss upon waking, when all my concerns are gone. Then my memory returns and my worries gather around like growling wolves.

  It was that way the first morning I woke in Paris. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the grey stone walls of the convent dormitory. But the walls around me were whitewashed and the beams were bare.

  It took a moment before I remembered: I was in Paris, in Monsieur Champillon’s house. But my master was not Monsieur Champillon. I had a new master and his name was Monsieur Price.

  Even in the hottest of summers, the convent was always cool, but the attic was already uncomfortably warm. I got up and washed my face. Outside the window, rooftop after rooftop stretched into the distance. Although I saw no one, I had the overwhelming feeling of voices and rumbling carts all around me. The city was like a living animal.

  I dressed and followed the narrow servants’ stairs down to the hall. The passage was quiet. I went from room to room and found no one. Climbing the main staircase, I passed the bedroom and saw the bed had not been slept in. I entered each room, but it appeared my master was not at home.

  He had been in the house, however, for the coat was gone from the wardrobe. Now a cloak was draped across the chair. The books on the shelf were leaning, as though someone had searched through them.

  I stood on the landing, listening for any sound. Inside the domed hall, all was silent.

  When I returned to the kitchen, I saw a note on the table.

  “I am advised that you can read and are of reliable character. In the absence of my servant, Pierre, I require you to obtain for me the following.”

  My master had then written a list of herbs and approximate weights. Beneath this was a hastily drawn map. The note was signed with the initials ‘AP’.

  Next to the note was a velvet pouch. Opening the pouch, I found several silver coins.

  The clip-clop of horses hooves and slowing wheels broke the silence.

  Through the side window I saw a man in a top hat by the gate. I straightened my dress and tidied my hair. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The man was not my master, but Champillon’s driver, who had brought me to the Rue Belle the previous night.

  He grunted a greeting, “From Madame Bourget,” he added, as he handed me a box and returned to his carriage.

  The carriage rattled away. I carried the box to the kitchen and placed it on the table. Opening it, I found a black silk dress. It was not as fine as Madame Bourget’s, but better than anything we wore in Reveille. I supposed Madame Bourget would not want me to be seen in Paris in my country clothes.

  I took the dress upstairs and caught a glimpse of my reflection when I put it on. I did not look as stylish as Madame Bourget, but I looked very different. I pinned my hair higher and smoothed the fabric.

  I went down to the kitchen and read the note again. Much as I preferred to stay in the familiar surrounds of the house, I had to go out. I crossed the courtyard in my fine new clothes, locked the gate, and set off along the Rue Belle.

  I will always remember my first morning in Paris. I had only glimpsed the city through the carriage windows. Now on foot, I felt fully its overwhelming activity. At each corner were houses, and beyond them, more houses. There were carts and carriages and horses, but no one seemed to notice or step out of their way. The people of Paris lived like foxes in burrows, darting back and forth through doorways and arches. Never had I seen people so oblivious to others, so caught up in their own tasks and lives. I was invisible to them, just another soul among the masses.

  I held my master’s map in my hand. I turned left at the sign of the corn, a busy baker, then right at the sign of the pig, a charcuterie. This led to a passage, at the end of which was a church. The herbalist’s shop was opposite the church. I pushed open the door, setting a bell ringing. I handed over the list and watched as the owner measured each item. With the strange assortment of herbs packed into my basket, I handed over the coin and left the shop.

  The way home was not as far as it seemed. I found the marketplace near the Rue Belle. I bought extra bread in case my master came home for lunch. He did not, nor did he return for dinner.

  The sun slid from the sky. I lit the lamps, waited an hour, then dimmed them, finally climbing the stairs to my room.

  I was sure no one had been in the house, but the next morning there was another list on the kitchen table. This time my master needed medicinal herbs. The shop was in Le Marais.

  Following the instructions on the note, I found the shop easily. On my way home, I recognised many of the shops and street corners. My knowledge of Paris was increasing.

  The next day I went further again. The walk took me through new districts until I came to the Seine. The shop was near the Pont au Change and run by a stern and respectable woman, who glared at my note and gave me the herbs without smiling. I returned along the banks of the river. When I reached the marketplace, I realised I had learned another circle through the city.

  The next day there was no note, but the following day my master asked me to cross the Seine, to the district of Saint-Germain de Prés. The walk was a long one, taking me over the river and through tree-lined streets. I found the shop near the medieval church. I packed up the herbs for my master - exotic herbs this time, from the south of France - and returned to the Rue Belle.

  On Saturday, my master’s note asked me to return to Le Marais. Although Price had always given me the correct coin, that day he had given me far too much. I placed the pouch with the extra coin next to the herbs. The herbs and the money were gone the next morning.

  Looking back, I believe this first week was a test. I do not know what Monsieur Price did with these dried herbs, but it is my belief they were of no purpose to him.

  The maids and housekeepers at the market were the only people I spoke to in those early days. This part of Paris was so crowded, no one knew anything of my master or the servant boy, Pierre, who had preceded me. I had the feeling one could disappear into the city and never be found.

  On Monday afternoon, a carriage rattled to a halt outside the gate, followed by a horse and cart. Madame Bourget stepped out of the carriage in her fine dress while Champillon’s gardeners climbed down from the cart, moving silently around the courtyard, trimming the roses and weeding the flowerbeds. Madame Bourget looked carefully at the garden and then joined me at the servants’ entrance.

  “The master is not in,” I told her, as we walked through the hall, “I have not seen him all week.”

  “He has sent me a note that you are satisfactory.”

  I found this surprising and wanted to ask more.

  “It seems you have enough oil for the lamps,” she peered closely.

  “I have only lit the lamps in the hall and the front rooms,” I added, “There has been no need to light the other rooms.”

  Madame Bourget strolled around the sitting room.

  “Very good, Elise,” Madame Bourget paused by the f
ireplace, “There is a cobweb under the mantelpiece,” she said grimly, “Make sure you do not neglect your duties.”

  I watched Madame Bourget and the gardeners depart. Silence descended on the house again.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for cobwebs. The spiders spun their webs confidently in these rooms, where no human presence disturbed them.

  In the second week of my service, the errand list changed. As I read my master’s note, my heart quickened, for these materials were far from harmless.

  My master required sulphur, iron and a small quantity of mercury.

  “The money for these items is in the cupboard. You shall find the key under the bench.”

  I searched for the key and then unlocked the cupboard. There was a quantity of the precious whale oil which Madame Bourget was so obsessed about, a stack of beeswax candles, and the leather pouch. The pouch was heavier than before. When I looked inside, I saw not silver, but gold.

  I read the note again. My master wanted me to go to a shop on the Île de la Cité.

  Washerwomen worked in the muddy paths near the river and the riverbanks echoed with clanging and shouts from workshops. Price had given me directions to go to the end of the island. I crossed a bridge and entered the narrow streets. As I passed beneath the dark and sooty houses, I felt the very breath of the medieval city. The Cathedral towered over the maze of buildings. The coins weighed heavily, and though I did not want to exchange them for chemicals, I was anxious to be rid of them.

  I will not describe the shop or its location, as I am not sure that it still exists or that the business there was entirely legitimate. The sign over its door gave no indication as to what lay inside. When I opened the door, I was faced with a heavy curtain. The men in the room beyond met me with an inquisitive glance. One rose to his feet, and I handed him my master’s list.

  He was a coarse, strong man, unlike an apothecary. He gestured for me to follow him, pushing aside another curtain.

  In this room, shelves of bottles and flasks rose to the ceiling. The man searched the shelves, pulling down the bottles and placing them on a worn table.