The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  “Price again,” he muttered, “Where’s his boy?”

  “His boy?”

  “Price’s servant boy, Pierre.”

  “I don’t know, sir. He is no longer in Monsieur Price’s employ.”

  The man raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “So Price is now sending a girl to do his errands?”

  “Yes, Monsieur Price has sent me,” I said with difficulty.

  “Then I hope you are luckier than Pierre,” the man said, as he passed the bottles to me.

  The sulphur had a yellow hue, the iron was a rich red and the silver pearls of mercury ricocheted around the bottle. The glass bottles were dusty and smudged. In my haste to be gone, I tipped the bag of gold coins onto the bench.

  The man held up the coin and examined it carefully.

  “Give Price my regards - when you see him,” the man said as he led me back through the maze of curtains. His companions watched me as I left and I was glad to reach the door to the street.

  I took a wrong turn when I left the shop. The lane led to another and then opened onto a market square. The square was full of stacked cages. In them were fluttering and panicking bodies - I had found the Parisian bird market as I later learned. The poor creatures shrieked as I passed by. My skirt trailed in the foul-smelling mud as I walked down another lane, eventually finding the river.

  I rinsed my skirt in the water pump as soon as I reached the Rue Belle. The yard was silent, under a steely grey sky that matched my mood. When I got inside, I placed the bottles of chemicals on the kitchen bench. The quicksilver quivered in the bottle. I had heard the monks speak of mercury in Reveille and knew that it was a compound of dangerous power. But it was not my place to question my master. I left the bottles on the table as always, knowing that sometime during the night, he would come to collect them.

  The next day I found a note requesting more sulphur. As well as the note, Price had given me a sealed letter.

  The address was near the river again. Remembering the strange shop on the island, my heart was heavy as I set off. But I had no reason to be concerned. The shop was near the Pont au Change, on a street of wigmakers and perfumers. I opened the door and found myself in an exquisite and sweet-smelling room. I handed the letter to a young man, who showed it to an older man in a velvet coat. The older man read the note closely. He gestured for me to follow him into an alcove.

  There was a bewildering array of bottles on the shelves. The glass was highly polished and shining, the opposite of the grubby bottles in the shop on the Île de la Cité.

  “The sulphur, as your master requests,” the man smiled, resting the bottle on the palm of his hand.

  A group of gentleman had entered the front room. The older man joined them and I heard a murmur as I left the shop.

  “Price.”

  The gentlemen gave me an appraising look.

  All of Paris seemed to know of my master, although to me, he remained invisible. After my errands, there was little to do except stop the dust from settling in the empty rooms. I had no request to prepare meals and no visitors came to the house. I had no idea where or when my master slept. Only his study showed signs of occupation. One morning a long scroll was unfurled along the desk. The next day, two books were open. The ink bottle had run down and there were papers missing from his notebook.

  My master was like a ghost, for all the trace he left in the world.

  For the next two days, I had no instructions, but on Saturday, I found a note requesting a list of powders from an address in Saint-Germain des Prés.

  Price had sent me to the Left Bank the week before. I found my way there easily and soon saw the old church and the abbey, and a large tree on the corner of a square. I stared at Price’s note, following the complicated directions. At last I came to a quiet square, lined by tall townhouses. I entered a courtyard and approached a doorway.

  The maid who answered the door gave me a cold stare.

  “I have a letter for Monsieur Besson,” I said, “Monsieur Price has sent me.”

  The maid let me enter. I waited in the hall as she disappeared up a staircase.

  I glanced into the room off the hall. It was full of statues and urns. One of the statues had the head of an eagle, just like the illustration of the Egyptian gods in Price’s study.

  The maid was coming down the stairs. The man behind her had white wispy hair and wore a coat, waistcoat and breeches. He looked like the master of the house but he greeted me politely and gestured for me to follow him.

  The maid stared after us.

  “Let me see what Monsieur Price has written,” the old man said kindly, as we walked through the hall and down a set of steps into a long geometric garden. Birds chirped in the trees and flowers grew beneath the neatly trimmed hedges. It was hard to believe such a tranquil place existed in the centre of Paris.

  The old man crumpled the note and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “This way,” he guided me into a greenhouse.

  Inside, the air was cool and crisp. My eyes rested on a long table covered with mortars, pestles, glass jars and implements.

  “Let us see, where are my essences?” the old man scanned the shelves. He took down one bottle after another, carefully squeezing drops into a bowl, “An interesting idea that Price has this time,” he said, as he poured the liquid into a bottle.

  I said nothing as I watched him mix the essences. In truth, my mouth was dry.

  “And some minerals,” the old man went on, crossing to another shelf, “Your master must trust you,” he grinned as he measured out the powders, “Usually he sends his agent to collect these bottles. Let us see, where are the gold flakes?”

  He sprinkled the fine gold into a jar.

  “You have the money with you?”

  “Of course, Monsieur,” I held out the pouch.

  “Price must indeed have trust in you,” the old man smiled strangely as he handed me the bottles, “But what you have exchanged Price’s gold for is even more valuable.”

  I felt myself blush as I stuttered my reply, “I do not know what my master does, sir. I only run errands for him.”

  “That is a good answer, girl. You do not want to know too much about your master’s business. Tell Price to visit me next week. Writing letters is all well and good, but I am keen to meet face to face. Let him know he is most welcome at the Academy. One day we will want to see the results of his experiments.”

  The man smiled again, “You shall remember all that?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  I felt foolish that I knew so little of what my master did and where he went, and whom he knew in the city. I followed the old man through the greenhouse to the garden.

  “Marie will show you out,” he nodded to the maid, who had appeared at the base of the steps. The maid guided me to the front door, with none of the politeness of her master.

  I had another look at the strange statues in the front room. These half-man, half-animals were the gods of Egypt, Madame Bourget had said. I wondered if the old man had been to Egypt too. I craned my neck as I saw a gold mask in the corner.

  “Come,” Marie shooed me toward the front door.

  I checked the essences were securely in my basket. When I took a last glance at the house, I thought I saw someone at an upstairs window.

  On the way home to the Rue Belle, I noticed a man walking close behind me. Faces passed by so often in Paris, it was hard to know who was familiar and who was a stranger. I had not felt afraid in the city before, believing I was as anonymous as everyone else. But maybe I was naive. I really did not know who was watching me, as I walked through the streets. I thought again how Paris was a city in which a person could disappear and never be found. But the man faded into the crowds and I soon forgot him.

  I felt particularly confused as I unpacked the bottles when I got back to the Rue Belle. How was I to convey a message to my master, when I myself had never seen him face to face? Why had everyone heard of him, but few had seen him?
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  Another silent and lonely night stretched ahead. I sat by myself in the kitchen, eating my dinner of bread and cheese. I stared at the bottle of gold flakes. Although it was not my place, I began to wonder why my master needed all these powders, and what he was doing with them.

  I thought about all the things I had brought him that week.

  Mercury.

  Sulphur.

  Gold powder.

  Something tugged at the edge of my mind. I had a distant memory of a book I had once seen in Brother Thomas’ library. A book filled with strange, magical symbols, of which Brother John disapproved.

  I pushed the thought from my mind. It was not my place to question my master.

  Chapter Three

  Madame Bourget came by on Monday afternoon.

  “I have been running many errands for my master,” I said.

  “He said he is very pleased with you,” Madame Bourget said, squinting at a spot on the window pane, “And he has told Monsieur Champillon’s agent he will stay in the house until the end of next summer. That is good news, Elise, for us and for you.”

  There was nothing else I could say. I had no place in passing opinion on my master’s business or his acquaintances. If he required me to obtain items for him, I should continue to do so. Monsieur Champillon and Madame Bourget knew more of the world than I did and they were not concerned.

  So I entered my third week in the house on the Rue Belle. Most mornings there was a list on the kitchen table. Price required mainly sulphur and iron, but also other powders, of which I had never heard. He sourced them from pharmacies and apothecaries, and once from a shop which made pigments for paints.

  I returned to the shop on the Île de la Cité. I felt no more comfortable opening its door than I had the first time. The owner led me beyond curtains into yet more rooms, where bottles were piled high on the shelves. The men all had a furtive look and a middle-aged woman scowled from behind a curtain, as she squeezed something into a bowl. I tried not to look around, for this caused the occupants of the shop to grow even more tense. In a rear courtyard, I saw a great furnace and some statues stacked in a shed. It looked as if they were melting down the statues to reuse the metal. I kept my eyes on the ground and breathed easier when I closed the door behind me.

  On another day, Price gave me instructions to go to the banks of the river, to a place I discovered was a forge. I felt self-conscious as I entered the vast yard and handed Price’s note to the foreman. As I looked at the hardened men working, I wondered how Price expected me to carry the iron bars home. But instead, the foreman returned with bottles of metal filings.

  “Tell your master they are as pure as we could make them,” he said, as I handed him the coin.

  The foreman had kind, weary eyes. The other men in the yard stared more crudely. My cheeks reddened as I walked past them, sensing their whispers and leers. One blond man, with large hands and sharp eyes, smiled straight at me. I thought he was going to speak to me. Instead, he swaggered toward the foreman. I saw him cross his arms and nod in my direction. Of course, it was not just me who attracted all this attention.

  I could almost see the blond man’s lips form the words, “Albert Price.”

  I looked over my shoulder several times to make sure he was not following me. But he was only one of many men I encountered in those early days. Wherever I went, whether the shops were in the finest streets or the dingiest alleys, I heard the one word, whispered with discretion and reverence, awe and envy.

  “Price...”

  My master was never at home. It was only in the study that I found traces of his presence. Each morning different books were open. If I had to move the books to do the dusting, I made sure to put them in the same place. I felt there was a pattern to the disorder, as though Price had jumped up from his reading and begun work, and expected the book to be just where he left it.

  Some of the books were new and described processes which seemed very dull. Some were older, and had pictures that were pleasing to the eye, even if they had little to do with science.

  In one illustration, a man had lifted the edge of the sky and emerged into a realm of sunshine, leaving his laboratory and the rivers and fields of the earth behind him. The picture intrigued me. What was this world beyond the veil of stars? Why did the scientist want to go there? Why was the way to get there from his laboratory?

  Whenever I looked at these pictures however, the eye of the eagle-headed god on the wall seemed to watch me, like a sinister guardian of Price’s study. I felt guilty and uneasy and immediately stopped reading.

  Each evening, I wandered around the rooms, confident that there was no one here but myself. I had begun to walk up and down the main staircase. It was a far easier way to move around the house than by the cramped servants’ stairs. Madame Bourget had told me not to be seen, but who was there to see me in this grand empty house? Who was there to ensure all was quiet and in order? And who else was there to admire the fine hall and oval dome?

  Each night I turned down the lamps, gave a final look over the empty rooms, took a beeswax candle up the main stairs, and then ascended to my attic. Blowing out the flame, I watched the shadows on the ceiling until I fell asleep.

  * * * * *

  The nights were deathly quiet in the Rue Belle. I was surprised, late one evening, to be woken by the clip-clop of horses and the slowing of wheels beneath my window. Then I heard the gates rattling.

  I slid out of my bed and went to the window. There was a cart in the Rue Belle. Two grim-faced men holding a lantern were standing by the gate, peering through the railings.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then the door to the garden house opened. A brilliant light sprinkled across the ground and a tall figure walked slowly through the doorway. He wore high boots and a cloak, which he wrapped around him, although the night was warm. His face was hidden by his high collar.

  It took me a moment to realise that the man must be Albert Price. I had at last seen my master. But what was he doing awake at this time of night?

  Price unlocked the gate. The unwieldy cart rolled into the yard.

  The two black horses came to a halt near the fountain, their heads bobbing up and down behind their gleaming blinkers. The men leapt down from the cart. Backs bent, they carried a box across the cobblestones and through the brightly lit doorway of the garden house. They returned to the cart and lowered a barrel onto the ground, which they rolled through the doorway.

  The lamp swayed, creating a weak pool of light near the cart. I could see little more than their strong arms and strained backs as they carried more boxes from the cart to the garden house. The light from inside the garden house swam on the cobblestones, dimming then brightening. At times it seemed brighter than ten chandeliers. How many candles had been lit to produce such an effect?

  My master walked around the cart, pointing at the last crate. It was longer than the others and about the size and shape of a man.

  My master directed the two men to place the crate on the ground. In the lamplight, their faces were sweaty and frightened.

  I had last seen a box like this when I was in Reveille. The undertakers had brought a coffin to take away the body of the man who had died in the accident.

  Price circled the box, rubbing his chin carefully.

  A chill shiver crept up my spine as I realised what I was seeing. Was the box really a coffin? Was a poor departed soul inside? What did my master want with a body? I could not look. My limbs had frozen. I tried to step away from the window, but my shadow moved on the wall. I had no choice but to stay where I was.

  Price snapped his fingers. One of the men brought a bar from the side of the cart. I drew my breath, as my master took the bar and forced the crate open. The two men lifted the lid.

  My master leant down, staring into the box. He waved for the men to come closer. But there was no corpse inside. Instead, the men lifted up a metal pipe. My master examined it and nodded. He pointed to the garden house.r />
  The men took the pipes inside, one by one.

  When the men returned, Price took a pouch from under his cloak. I recognised it - it was the same pouch he left for me each morning. The gold glinted in the light of the lantern. The men took the money, bowed and began to retreat.

  My master called to them again and they seemed to die of fright as they turned around. He merely gave them more coin. Bowing fearfully, the two men climbed onto their cart.

  There was a name on the side of the cart, partly covered by a cloth. I glimpsed only a few letters before the cart rolled through the gates.

  In the weak light of the lantern, I saw the men glance behind them once and furtively make the sign of the cross, before the cart rumbled away into the night.

  Price locked the gates, then strode across to the garden house. He shut the door, and darkness descended on the courtyard again.

  The garden house was in total darkness now. I never suspected that there was anyone inside, or there was such a bright light behind the curtains.

  From the garden house, came a tapping sound. The noise continued for some time, accompanied occasionally by a faint bang, clatter and scraping as though metal was being dragged across the floor.

  The visit had been so strange, I had barely had time to gain any impression of my master. I had only learned he was tall, well-dressed and walked in a determined manner, and the workmen were frightened of him. I knew my master must come to the house at some time, but I was still startled to see him.

  I decided to stay awake, to see when Price emerged again. But sometime before dawn I fell asleep. When I awoke, there was a bolt on the outside of the garden house door.

  Downstairs, I found another note on the kitchen bench. The bottles I had bought the day before were gone.

  I searched the house, to see if Price was inside. The bed had not been slept in and the study was undisturbed.

  Albert Price had eluded me again.