by M C Dulac
I had no idea where I was now and I was all alone in Paris.
I began to walk along the boulevard. The raindrops were catching in my eyelashes. I was lost and cold and could barely see where I was going. A well-dressed man swung around suddenly, almost colliding with me. I stepped back quickly and peered up through the mist. The man’s eyes narrowed in surprise.
I had just found Jean-Louis Champillon.
Chapter Five
I had not seen Champillon since Reveille. The colour had returned to his face and he cut a fine, strong figure in his coat and cravat. At once I felt safe, certain that I had made the right decision to come this way. Fate had rescued me and led me straight to Champillon. The nightmare of Price was over.
But then I looked around and realised that Champillon was not alone.
“Jean-Louis?” the lady next to him smiled.
Champillon stared at me.
“Jean-Louis?” there was an edge to her sweet tone.
Champillon turned quickly. He kissed the lady’s hand and led her to a carriage that was waiting by the kerb, “Until later, Madame.”
“But not too long,” she raised her eyes. She was finely dressed and beautiful.
“Indeed, not too long,” Champillon returned her gaze.
A footman opened the carriage door. The lady ascended delicately, followed by an older gentleman who shook Champillon’s hand and began talking about his plans for that evening. I had obviously interrupted their conversation. I was embarrassed and aware of how out of place I was. I must have looked like a street urchin in my damp cloak.
The lady leaned out the carriage window and smiled at Champillon, while the older man settled himself inside the carriage, safe from the rain.
When the carriage had pulled away, Champillon turned to face me.
“Elise?” he frowned.
“Excuse me, Monsieur, but I must speak to you about your house on the Rue Belle.”
Champillon raised an eyebrow.
“Monsieur, your tenant Price is a strange man. The police came last night. Price’s servant boy is dead.”
The rain swirled around the street in a steady light mist, although Champillon’s top hat and coat were almost dry, as though he had just stepped out of one of these grand houses. I was again aware of how bedraggled I looked. What was I thinking, coming to this fine neighbourhood and speaking to my master?
But Champillon took me by the arm and guided me along the boulevard.
“Then, Elise, we must talk,” he said.
Champillon led the way off the boulevard and through a narrow alley. There were workshops along the alley and the air was thick with the smell of sawdust and resin. On the corner was a café. I had never been inside such a place, although I had passed many cafés on my walks through Paris. The interior was dim and the windows were dusty. The only people inside were workmen or those I knew to be the idle of Paris - weak young men who the maids said lived off their inheritances and spent their days drinking and talking nonsense.
Champillon led the way to a table in the corner. He raised his hand and the owner brought us two glasses. I glanced warily at the amber liquid, but Champillon assured me it would do no harm. One sip made my throat feel like it was on fire. Champillon waited until the owner was across the room, then he fixed me with his cold blue eyes.
“Now what is your concern about Price?”
I sniffed and placed the list, stained with mud, and wet from the rain, on the table.
Champillon studied it carefully.
“These are not normal items, Monsieur. These are things that no ordinary doctor or scientist needs.”
“Have you seen other lists?”
“I have obtained chemicals for Price from all over Paris. Each day he sends me on errands to obtain metals, essences, powders. Twice I have been followed, I am sure of it.”
“Who has followed you?”
“I do not know. I fear it is the same people who followed Pierre and murdered him.”
“Have they followed you to the Rue Belle?”
“Not yet. But they are getting closer.”
“What else have you observed in this house?”
The drink was sweet on my lips. I felt warmer and less frightened. I took a deep breath and concentrated on what I had to say.
“The only room my master uses is his study. There he has many books about Egypt and science, but not science which any good and decent person should pursue.”
Champillon raised an eyebrow.
I went on, “He does not eat, nor does he sleep in his bed. He is never in the house during daylight hours. I believe he works in the garden house. I have only seen him once at night.”
“You spoke with him?”
“No, I saw him from my window. A cart arrived after midnight. It brought him metal pipes and barrels. He opened the door of the garden house and the light inside was blinding.”
Champillon rubbed his chin, “Go on, Elise.”
“There is something in there which makes a noise. Some sort of monster. He controls it, I’m sure.”
“What type of noise?”
“It whistles and it breathes. It must feed on the mercury and chemicals. Monsieur, please, I do not like what is happening. All of these things are not right. I’m afraid of what my master is doing. I fear -”
“Go on.”
“Monsieur, I fear -”
Champillon sipped his drink. I grew angry that he was not taking me seriously.
“What do you fear?”
“I fear that in your home he is practising a dark art. The dark art of -”
Champillon placed the glass on the table, “Alchemy?”
Champillon broke into a smile that was almost beatific, while I sank into my chair.
“You know this?”
“I do not know anything for certain, Elise.”
My head spun. Champillon was calm and amused. My sense of safety and warmth was gone. New feelings of foreboding and unease flooded through me.
Champillon swallowed the last of his drink and gestured for the owner to bring him another, “Elise, you are remarkable.”
“But, Monsieur, don’t you care about evil?”
“Are you so sure it is evil? You have spent your whole life in the convent, in a place stuck in the Middle Ages. We are now in a new age of discovery and possibility.”
“I do not understand, Monsieur.”
“The knowledge of the ancients is the key to our future.”
“Please, Monsieur, I need your help!”
“No, Elise,” he said simply, “I need yours.”
His words stunned me and I was silent. Another drink appeared and I pushed it away.
“What do you mean?”
“I thank you, Elise, for restoring me to health in Reveille. I watched you in those days, measuring the medicines, correcting the nun who was years older than you, instructing her on the herbs and their properties. That is why I brought you to Paris. Already in these few weeks you have advanced my knowledge beyond what I had dreamed.”
“I have done nothing.”
“You have found secrets that men would kill for. Indeed, they may have killed already.”
“I do not understand. Why did you bring me to Paris?”
“I needed to learn more about Price. He and myself are acquainted. Although he may not be aware that I am his landlord.”
“He is your friend?”
“Not his friend. But we knew each other, a long time ago in Egypt, when I was serving in the army of Napoleon.”
A chill of dread swept over my spine. Egypt to me was a place that was both sinister and magical, a place of strange legends and stranger creatures.
Champillon went on, “I have thought of introducing myself, now he is in Paris. It is over twenty years since we have spoken.”
“But what has this to do with me, sir?”
“I have been trying to find a way to watch Price. I thought carefully after I observed you in Reveille. With your
knowledge, I knew you would be a useful assistant for him. When his servant boy disappeared, the perfect opportunity arose.”
“Perfect?” my head ached.
“My plan was to place you in the house, so, in time, you would inform me of what Price is doing. I expected my plan would take several months, yet here you are already.”
“Inform you of what he was doing?” I cried, “You wish me to spy on my master?”
“Elise, as you said, Price may be up to evil things.”
Champillon was playing with me and I did not like it, “Monsieur, I beg you to explain. Who is Price?”
“That I am not sure.”
“But you said you knew him, in Egypt.”
Champillon swallowed his drink, “Is it possible to know such a man?”
“Did you know him or not?”
“In Egypt, I met a man who called himself Albert Price. And that man has intrigued me ever since.”
Heavy rain was now dripping from the eaves outside. Workmen were shouting as they moved their frames indoors. The passage had grown very dark.
“Monsieur, please tell me.”
“What harm can it do to tell you? It is a story I have never told anyone, although I have never forgotten it. It is a secret I have never confessed, for who would believe me?”
Champillon seemed to be talking to himself. I crossed my arms and waited, as he stared through the window.
“Twenty years ago,” Champillon began at last, “I accompanied Napoleon and his army into Egypt. My uncle was a General and I had begged him to find a role for me in Napoleon’s campaign. We were not merely conquering the land but discovering its treasures - a whole civilisation was under the sands, waiting to be uncovered! We had heard of the Sphinx and the Pyramids and stories of tombs and temples in the desert. The further our army traveled the more fabulous the tales. Thousands of years of knowledge awaited us, not just of the Pharaohs, but the secrets of the Ptolemy kings and the Arabs!
“A Mameluke prince was rumoured to have hidden a gold treasure in Alexandria. My first task was to sail to Alexandria to see if the rumour was true.
“It was a minor mission and I had no servants in attendance. I found my Arab guide and his sailboat waiting in Cairo.
“There was only one other passenger on the boat, also in a soldier’s uniform. He arrived on the docks just as the sun was setting, and sat quietly in the shadow of the sails. He said his name was Albert Price, and that he came from Switzerland.
“I was familiar with the Swiss-German language, but Price spoke so strangely, I could barely understand him. He spoke French slightly more clearly, but his diction and words were out-of-date and old-fashioned.
“He gave a vague reason for traveling to Alexandria, and I got the impression that he was also engaged by the Consul. When I pressed him, however, he was evasive and began talking of other things.
“I was tired that night and not yet interested enough to learn more about Price. The night was uncomfortably hot and the wind was against us. When I woke we had barely traveled more than a few miles. Price was huddling in the shadows again, studying a map. I noted his habit of wrapping his head like an Arab during daylight. The boat made slow progress through the waters and it was not until late the next evening that the buildings of Alexandria appeared in the distance.
“The Egypt I had seen so far, was the Egypt of the Pharaohs. Alexandria was a city from a different era, built by the prince Alexander to be the centre of his world. Watching it from the water, I felt the pull of the city and all its mysteries. Price talked of the famous lighthouse, the destruction of the library by the Romans, the rediscovery of the texts by the Arabs and the gradual trickle of knowledge into Europe after the Crusades. In those streets, he told me, were far more books and secrets, than we in the West ever dreamed.
“The wind dropped again. I lay on the deck, watching the fiery sky.
“Price’s talk of history soon bored me, and I asked him about himself. Who was his patron? What had he done so far in Egypt? Had he fought any skirmishes? Had he met Napoleon? I was sixteen and all of this thrilled me. Price fell silent and took out a long scroll, on which was a panorama of the city. Peering over his shoulder, I saw that the Alexandria on the scroll was long gone, but traces of it could be seen on the horizon before us.
“It was fascinating to watch him. Price was measuring the distances on the panorama, and comparing them to the present-day city. He lengthened his arm, and I noticed his cuffs were too short for his wrists. I had the feeling he was not wearing his own uniform.
“Eventually we sailed into the city and found the docks in chaos. The carriage I had arranged had not come and the Arab who had been paid to meet us was nowhere to be seen. Price spoke to the harbour master in the native language. Apparently there was a problem, which could not be solved without waiting hours and paying the locals a lot of money. I was angry and prepared to fight, but Price told me to calm down. He said we could make our own way to the lodgings.
“Therefore, I found myself traipsing through the streets with Price, conspicuous in our French uniforms. Price had not been here before and his maps, which were one thousand years out-of-date, were of little use. At last we found the French quarter - an oasis among the dirt and chaos - and took lodgings in a house there.”
The rain was pouring now and the Paris lane was dark as midnight. Champillon continued his strange story.
“With no interpreter or carriage, Price became my guide to the city. We spent the next day visiting every official and noble on my list. The treasures of the Mameluke prince had disappeared again, if they ever existed. Price warned me against buying the other items the merchants offered. These, he said, were not as old as they claimed, while others were utterly worthless. Price helped me find a collector whose back room was stuffed with genuine antiquities. On Price’s advice I purchased several small statues and a mummified cat. Price told me that there were more dealers deep in the old city, where I might find very valuable artifacts.
“Lured by this promise, I spent the next few days following Price down narrow alleys and dusty passages. In storerooms we saw manuscripts thrown together like cheap fabrics. I suggested we purchase all of them, for surely they must come from the ancient library. Price pointed out that some were mere copies of Herodotus or inventory books of ancient cargo.
“In one store, we found a gold ankh, but after a while, it became clear that all the important antiquities from the time of the Pharaohs had been shipped to Cairo. It was two days before the Arab would return with the boat, so I stayed with Price as he continued his own search. He knew so much I hoped he might lead me to something valuable.
“But Price had no interest in artifacts, mummies or gold. Instead, we pushed our way through every dusty curtain and dirty courtyard in Alexandria to sort through rotting and yellowed parchments and scrolls. Price asked each store owner the same question over and over in Arabic.
“He was searching for something special.
“We went deeper and deeper into the city, into places where the local people stared at us with such hostility, I kept one hand upon my knife and the other on my pistol. Price argued with holy men and shopkeepers, and convinced veiled women to let us through to hidden yards and passages. Always he asked the same question, and always the Arabs shook their heads, waved and shouted.
“Eventually it was the day before I was due to leave for Cairo. We were in the back room of a shifty merchant when Price unrolled a scroll. On it were the usual animal-headed gods and monsters of Egypt. Price pulled a leather-bound volume from a shelf, sending clouds of grit and sand into the dry air. I swore at him, but he merely opened the book and traced his fingers over the words.
“ ‘Democritus,’ he murmured, ‘This, Champillon, this is what I need!’
“He purchased the scrolls for an extraordinary amount of gold and we carried them back to our lodgings. That night he was in a good mood. He had found some wine, which we drank on the windless rooftop of the ho
use. The Arabs were saying a fever had broken out in the districts near the wharves. It was the thought of this fever, or maybe just exhaustion, that made us drink heavily. Price became talkative. I could completely understand his old-fashioned French by now, although his conversation never ceased to be bizarre.
“Everything in nature was subject to change, he said. The wine we drank came from grapes, the grapes from seeds, the seeds from the soil, the soil from fallen leaves.
“I nodded drunkenly at his logic. Price was becoming more agitated.
“Why not then, he went on, could lead not turn to gold? Glass to diamond? Mercury to silver? And what of ourselves? The impulses that spun around our bodies could also change so that what died did not have to die, but could be renewed over and over!
“I drank my wine and told him to go on.
“Price clenched his hands. Men knew these things, he insisted, from long ago. But the knowledge had been hidden and forgotten deliberately.
“I squinted at the city through my wine glass. The harbour was blood red. Price began talking about atoms, which he said were the basis of all things. With the power of life came the power of death, he kept saying. The fire of destruction. The ancients knew of this fire, not just the Egyptians, but the people of the Indus Valley to the east. Select individuals in the West knew of it too, da Vinci and Paracelsus and others! It only took one great mind to place all the secrets together.
“I was drifting off to sleep. Whatever other words Price spoke that night I will never know.
“When I woke the next day, I was lying on the rooftop. My head was aching from the wine. I stumbled down the stairs. Price was inside, shielding himself from the sunlight. He said he was going to arrange our carriage to the docks. I gave him the last of my money and he set off.
“I drank some tea and ignored the throbbing in my head. I opened the book by Democritus for which Price had paid so much money. The text was in ancient Greek, a language I knew well. Before me were diagrams and details of experiments. Over and over again I saw the Greek word ‘chumeia’. I knew legend said that this was the basis of our word ‘alchemy’.