The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  * * * * *

  By now I was used to the effect that Price’s name had in Paris. Whenever I handed over his lists to a shopkeeper, I saw the same reaction of curiosity, hidden behind indifference, and awe. Sometimes the shopkeepers whispered to each other. More than once I felt that I might have been followed part of the way home. The reaction was disconcerting, but I could do nothing about it. I was only a servant of a rich and mysterious master.

  Only once was the shroud of mystery pierced. A day or two after the men had come in the cart, I was in a shop near the Place des Vosges which sold medicines. I gave the owner my list. He nodded and went into a room behind the counter.

  I heard a clatter and light footsteps across the floor.

  A girl ran out of the back room.

  “Pierre!” she cried. Her cheeks flushed red when she saw me, “I’m sorry. I am mistaken - I thought you were Pierre,” she added quickly, “Monsieur Price’s boy.”

  “I’m Monsieur Price’s new servant.”

  The girl’s brow wrinkled, “Has Pierre left Monsieur Price?”

  “He left three weeks ago.”

  The girl shook her head slowly, “Is Pierre in Paris?” she leaned toward me, as if hoping to find the answer in my face.

  “I don’t know.”

  Sadness crept over the girl like a shadow. The light faded from her eyes. I felt sorry for her and I felt bad that I had answered so bluntly.

  The man returned and patted the girl on the shoulder. Was he her father?

  “Here, what Price needs,” he gave me a bottle.

  “Thank you,” I said, “If I hear of Pierre, I will ask him to visit you.”

  The girl’s eyes lit up. I left the shop, thinking how little I knew of my new life.

  I rarely thought of the boy who had run Price’s errands before me. Why had Pierre left Price’s household? Did Pierre also look forward to seeing the girl in the shop near the Place des Vosges? I could almost imagine Pierre walking these streets, the list in his pocket and the girl in his thoughts.

  My own life over the last few weeks had been so strange, it was nice to think of such ordinary things. I suddenly wished for friendship and company, such as I had known in Reveille. I daydreamed that when I returned to the house on the Rue Belle that Pierre would be there, lighting the fireplaces, and telling me his plans for his future with the pretty girl. I imagined the chandeliers aglow, the smell of roasting meat, the sound of carriages on the cobblestones and the excitement of people arriving for dinner. I imagined Pierre and I carrying the food from the kitchen. I imagined beautiful ladies and well-dressed gentleman seated in the fine dining room and their clever conversation.

  I imagined them turning their heads to smile at their illustrious host, Albert Price, sitting at the head of the table.

  But that was where my imagination ran out. When I thought of my master I saw nothing. All of Paris knew of him, but nobody had said anything that made him real.

  Although I had spent three weeks in his house in Paris, Albert Price was still no more than a shadow.

  Chapter Four

  I slept fitfully that week and believed it was due to the late summer heat. But my mind was far from at rest. I dreamt of the sullen men in the forge by the river and the desperate sorrow of the girl in the apothecary, of carts drawn by black horses rumbling through the night and blazing light on cobblestones. Something terrible was coming toward me. Something I could not yet see, but I could hear it breathe and shriek.

  I woke with a jolt, and heard the very sounds of my nightmare, alive in the Paris night.

  A strange high whistle ripped through the air. It was following by heavy animal-like panting.

  My heart flipped over. The noise was not in my room, but close by. As I heard the heavy sigh again, I got up and ran to the window.

  The only sound was the pounding of my own heart. Then, as the whistling rose a second time, I saw smoke rising from the roof of the garden house.

  Whatever was causing the noise was inside.

  Another plume of smoke came from the roof. Was Price’s laboratory on fire? There was no smell of smoke, although the clouds billowed upwards. I had a strange idea that maybe it was not smoke, but steam.

  The beast breathed in and out, like a dragon.

  The noise rose, fell and then all was silent.

  I heard the sound of tapping on metal. Price must be inside the garden house. At least he was there, to keep the steam-breathing creature under control.

  My mind raced further. Was that the reason Price had the barrels and pipes delivered? To build a cage for this monster?

  The minutes ticked by. There was nothing now, except for an occasional tapping. I closed the window tightly and stayed awake for a long time.

  I woke the next morning to a clear blue sky. It was so hard to believe I had heard the noises but I was certain they were no dream. There had been a whistle, a rush of steam and a steady breathing. It had come from inside the garden house.

  The house was empty as usual. The bottles in the kitchen were gone and a note was in their place. Price had risen in darkness and disappeared at sunrise. I wondered where he went during the day. He was not in any of the rooms of the house, nor could he be in the garden house, for the door, as always, was barred from the outside.

  Knowing I was alone emboldened me. When I had finished my bread and cheese, I decided to thoroughly search the house and its grounds, to see what else I could discover.

  I wandered through the house, but it was undisturbed as always, and although I looked carefully, I could not find any hidden doors or cupboards. There was a cellar under the house. I lit a candle and walked down the damp steps. Under the stone arches were empty wine racks and old wooden barrels. There was also an abandoned kitchen, with a fireplace and a washing room. There was no sign of my master, not that I had hoped to find him in these damp, eerie underground rooms. Certain there was nothing there, I climbed the cellar steps and came out into the yard.

  Ahead of me was the garden house. It was made of brick and around the top of the walls were high windows, which were covered from the inside by grey cloth. The cloth must have been thick, for I had never seen any light escape the windows. The garden house was larger than it first looked.

  Was the steam monster in there now? Did it sleep during the day? I pressed my ear to the wall and listened carefully for any sound from inside, but all was quiet.

  There was one large wooden door into the garden house, secured by the wide bar. Coming nearer, I saw for the first time that the bar was attached to a circular device. As I ran my fingertips along the bar, I realised that although it was painted to look like the rest of the door, it was made of metal.

  The device had tiny teeth, like the inside of a clock. When I touched the device, one of the jagged edges clicked. I gently touched it again, hoping to undo what I had done, but the teeth shifted again.

  The metal device had moved as though it were alive. A feeling of guilt rushed over me. This was followed by fear that Price might know what I had done or worse still, that I might have woken the steam monster. I glanced at the covered windows. Everything was quiet. I ran quickly across the yard, deciding never to go near the garden house again.

  But when I reached the kitchen, my mind was spinning with more questions. What was this strange magical device which guarded Price’s laboratory? What was he doing inside the garden house? What sort of man was he, to be known only by name and to transact business in darkness? Why had the men on the cart looked so afraid of him and why had he hidden his face behind a cloak? Most of all, where was he now?

  But the grand house was silent, and offered me no answers.

  Price had requested sodium that morning from a shop in Le Marais. The errand did not take long. I returned and went about my duties, dusting the silent rooms. When I came to the study, I saw a book on the desk.

  I did not want to look, but my eyes drifted to the open page. There was a drawing of a strange metal barrel on wheels wi
th a high chimney. The text was in English, a language I knew by sight, but could not understand. Next to this book was an older book. In this was an illustration of a man at work in his laboratory, overseen by a strange glowing star.

  The garden house was visible through the window. I closed the shutters and left the study quickly. There were things here I did not want to understand.

  * * * * *

  That night, I sat alone in the kitchen as usual. Madame Bourget had instructed me to buy only what food I needed. My master, in addition to not sleeping and avoiding daylight, did not appear to eat. I carved a piece of cheese off the block and ate it with my fresh bread.

  I was so used to being alone, I was startled to hear a man’s voice. I opened the door onto the courtyard. The voice did not come from the garden house. Someone was calling out nearby and their cries were getting louder.

  I ran through the grand hall. From the window in the drawing room, I saw a lamp hovering near the railing fence. I opened the main door reluctantly and saw two men rattling the front gate.

  I crossed the courtyard. The light from my candelabra fell upon the strangers’ uniforms.

  “Open the gate, girl,” the older man said.

  I unlocked it quickly. The men strode straight toward the house.

  “This is the home of Albert Price?”

  I nodded and guided them into the hall. The hall glowed in fragile candlelight. It was strange to light a house for a master who was never in, but I had lit the lamps, as always.

  “Tell your master we want to see him. I am Rabier, of the Paris Prefecture.”

  “My master is not here.”

  “Then we will wait.”

  “He may not be in until after midnight - or later.”

  Rabier frowned, “Do you not know?”

  “I am afraid not, Monsieur.”

  “We cannot stay here all night. Tell your master that we must speak with him as soon as possible. Pierre Labou’s body was found under the Pont St-Louis today.”

  The name meant nothing to me. I must have looked confused, for the second policeman added, “Pierre Labou. Price’s servant. Or what is left of the wretched soul.”

  “Pierre...” I said.

  “Price’s seal was found on a letter in the boy’s pocket. The shopkeepers of the Cité have told us that Pierre often went there on behalf of Price. Two shopkeepers confirmed the corpse fits Labou’s description. The boy had been stabbed before he was thrown in the river. He appears to have been dead for some time.”

  “Stabbed?”

  “Yes, stabbed with a dagger.”

  “Why?”

  Rabier looked impatient, “That is what we want to find out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Rabier rolled his eyes and spoke slowly, “There has been a murder. Pierre Labou is dead.”

  The blood rushed to my head and I heard it beating in my ears.

  “Can you remember all that, girl?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “My name is Rabier,” the policeman repeated, as though I were a fool, “Here is my card. Tell your master to visit us.”

  I took the card and guided them to the front gate. Their footsteps disappeared into the darkness and the night was still again.

  Pierre Labou was dead. The boy who had walked across Paris with the same lists that I now carried. The boy who had visited the same strange shops in the sinister lanes. He had been stabbed with Price’s own letter in his pocket, while on the errands which I now undertook. What did Price do when Pierre did not return? Did he know he had disappeared? Why had he told Madame Bourget that Pierre had run away?

  The feeling of unease that I had resisted for so long now seeped over me. It stained my thoughts and sent a chill through my bones. How had I denied the truth for so long? There was something very wrong and disturbing about Price and his work. No honest man would need to be so secretive. The danger I sensed was very real.

  I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the card Rabier had given me. No matter how terrifying my master might be, I must tell him about Pierre myself. I must face him and look into his eyes when he heard this news. I must see if there was shock or surprise or guilt.

  The bottles I had purchased that day were next to me on the table. When Price came to collect them that night, I would be waiting. I stared at the door, wondering when it would open. My heart thudded when I realised that I was about to see my master face to face at last.

  I waited and waited. Midnight came and went. I heard a noise in the yard. It was a cat, creeping around the cobblestones. I returned to my chair and stared at the bottles.

  However sleep eventually overwhelmed me. I woke to a new morning, with my head on my arms. I realised Rabier’s card, which I had held tightly in my fingers, was missing. Lying next to me on the table, however, was another list.

  I shuddered at the thought that Price had been standing over me as I slept. He had seen me, although I had never seen him. He had taken the bottles, prised the card from my fingers and then calmly placed the list by my side. Was he surprised by the visit of the Parisian police? Did he know that they had come because of Pierre? Did he care that Pierre had been killed?

  No, all he wanted was for his experiments to continue. There were ingredients on the list I had never heard of, substances with long Latin names. I folded the list and tucked it away, unwilling to be involved any longer in the task that had claimed the life of the boy before me. I could not go out into the city again, knowing that Pierre had set off and never returned.

  Instead I swept the kitchen and mopped the hall and replaced the candles and dusted the furniture on which I had never seen a single human being sit. I made my way through the silent house where each room had been untouched from the day I had arrived. At first I avoided the study on the second floor. Then, my heart brewing with resentment, I entered the room and walked straight toward the desk.

  The weak sun cast a triangle of light on the illustration of the pyramids. Another book lay open on the desk. Unable to fight my doubts any longer, I sat down and began to read.

  In Reveille I had seen books on science and medicine, and I was familiar with the names of physicians and scientists. I knew how to extract the essence from plants and how to create medicine from that essence. I had watched Sister Agatha distill the scent of flowers and make a sweet perfume. I had seen the blacksmith transform iron castings into horseshoes. But the book before me, contained symbols and diagrams of experiments I had never seen.

  Taking down one faded volume after another from the shelf, I placed them over the desk. I began to flip through the pages.

  I stared at an illustration of animal-headed gods, standing around a glowing bowl. On another page, medieval men were at a forge, pouring liquid metal from a pot.

  I thought of the book Brother Thomas kept locked away in his library. I remembered a word I had heard the monks say, a word spoken with disapproval, a word as bad as a deadly sin. A word that was rich and alluring, a word describing something I knew to be wrong, but which I knew was exactly what I was looking at in the pages before me.

  Alchemy.

  I drew out the list I had been given that morning. I looked through the books, until I came upon a list of elements. The book set out the very same chemicals my master required.

  The room had become very dark. Every nerve in my body was racing with fear.

  My situation was suddenly clear.

  My master was engaged in forbidden science. I myself had assisted him in his quest.

  He conducted his experiments during the night. He had created a metal monster in the stables.

  I had been followed on my errands, at least once.

  The boy before me had been murdered.

  I had no money and no way to return to Reveille, even if Sister Agatha would take me back. I had not even been to the church in Le Marais, to make myself known to the priest. I had no friends in this city and knew no one who would listen.

  Except Madame Bourget
.

  Thinking of Madame Bourget made me feel calmer at once. Surely Madame Bourget would understand. I had seen the unease in her eyes when she spoke of Price. She would not want her master, Jean-Louis Champillon, to be involved in such scandal. I knew she was at Champillon’s other house, somewhere near the Rue de Rivoli. I must go to her at once. I must tell her about Pierre’s murder and my fears.

  The sky was overcast when I locked the gate. Sometime after I left the Rue Belle it started to rain. I had not been out in the rain in Paris, and the whole city looked and smelt different. When I reached the colonnades, I found them teeming with people. I searched for a shorter way but must have taken a wrong turn. I did not emerge by the river, but instead into a square I had never seen before.

  It was not far, I told myself. I had passed the Rue de Rivoli before. I comforted myself that soon I would find Madame Bourget and she would listen to all my worries.

  When I glanced behind me I saw a man, walking steadily through the mist. I had never looked directly at the strangers in the streets before. Now I did and saw the man staring back at me. I realised I was not alone in the city. Maybe I had been watched all along.

  Perhaps this was how it had been for Pierre in his last moments. Had he noticed he had been followed? Did he have anyone to tell, or had he sat alone at the kitchen table each night, just as I had done? And what of the day when the strangers had caught up with him? What had they said as they had caught him under the bridge, with Price’s letter in his pocket? What had he told them, before he was stabbed and thrown in the Seine? What had been Pierre’s last thoughts as he looked into the unforgiving skies of Paris, his lifeblood and dreams draining away?

  And for what reason had he died?

  For the dreadful pursuit of alchemy.

  I would not give up. Madame Bourget would listen to me. I was being pushed and shoved in the crowd, as people jostled to get out of the rain. The list fell from my cloak. Someone knelt down to catch it, just as it landed in the mud. I snatched the list and broke into a run.

  The lane ended on a broad boulevard. I stared into the misty distance. Fine carriages rolled down the street.