by M C Dulac
“I turned the page and saw a lists of elements. The book set out how to combine the elements in an alembic. I had never seen such an experiment but it made perfect sense. I realised I was looking at a formula for making gold.
“My fellow Frenchmen had come to Egypt for adventure, glory and statues. But what I had in front of me was the most secret and valuable knowledge of all.
“There was a desperate banging on the door. An Arab was there, talking fast. He seemed to want money. Agitated, I looked around the room and found Price’s pouch of coins. I gave one to the Arab and he bowed and went away. I looked at the rest of the glittering gold in the pouch. I had never suspected Price was so rich.
“Unfortunately the Arab passed the coin onto the owner of the house, who gave it at once to the French Consul. The French officials noticed the seal was not authentic. I have no doubt it was real gold, but the date and markings were not genuine. I was leaving the house when the Arab led the soldiers to me.
“I did not know where Price was, or if he saw me being led away. He never returned from the wharves and I never again saw him in Egypt.
“I was taken to the French Consul. I explained that I was a Champillon, my uncle was a General and that my arrest was ridiculous. The coin belonged to Albert Price. The Consul said that he did not know any officer by that name, nor any savant. They asked if I knew Price’s rank or regiment. I remembered Price’s ill-fitting uniform and my suspicion that he was not a soldier at all.
“I told them I had seen many other coins in Price’s pouch. The officials assumed Price was a forger and a criminal. One suggested Price had deliberately gained my confidence, planning to rob me or worse. I did not tell them about the scrolls he had purchased. The Consul kept the coin and I was free to go.
“When I returned to our lodgings, I found that Price’s clothes and the gold were still there, but the scrolls were not. Price had sneaked in and out of our rooms like a ghost, taking what was most valuable. My headache had lifted, but I realised I could not remember the formula for gold. I cursed myself for not paying more attention.
“When I reached Cairo, I heard Price’s name again. He had been involved in a brawl, in which a French soldier had been stabbed and murdered. Price had fled into the desert. He was rumoured to have taken several scrolls and antiquities with him, without official permission.
“I never forgot Price and our strange journey. I often wondered if the scrolls were real or just mischievous forgery. Our army had been meticulous in cataloging the texts and artifacts in Egypt, but no alchemical knowledge had ever come to light. Price was such a strange character, it was hard to believe he possessed this knowledge. I did not know if anything Price had told me was true.
“Then, ten years later in London, I saw a figure lurching along the street with a scarf wound around his face. There was something familiar about his walk and manner. I followed him to a hotel and learned the man was indeed Albert Price. He was described as a quiet gentleman, but one which trouble seemed to follow.
“I decided that I would watch him, using my contacts to report on his movements. Over the next ten years he was sighted in Rome, Geneva and Amsterdam. Last year I was informed that he had come to Paris. He had the same problems of apparent wealth, no property, and few friends, and a propensity for experiments which disturbed his landlords.
“He had visited the Academy of Sciences. All agreed he was knowledgeable and engaging, but his evasiveness had aroused suspicion. His knowledge of science far exceeded what many in the Academy knew, yet he gave no satisfactory explanation as to where he had studied or whom he knew. Then came a rumour he was doing secret work for several banking families. He was staying in Montmartre, but his landlady was complaining about his hours and his experiments. It was in the spirit of our time together in Alexandria, that I made known to him that a house in the Rue Belle was empty. He has lived there since last winter.”
“Last winter?”
“Shortly before my coach overturned on the road near Reveille, and I found you, Elise.”
The events and adventures that Champillon had described were as unbelievable as was the realisation that these events had led, in some strange way, to my own role in Paris. I could not understand how fate could connect a journey in Egypt to an accident in Reveille and then a decision to change the course of my own inconsequential life.
“And that is why I need your help, Elise.”
As intriguing and alluring as these secrets were, I knew what I must say, “Monsieur, I want no part of this.”
“Price has knowledge which is of great value to our age.”
“But if it is alchemy -”
“Then you must tell me, Elise,” Champillon said, “For haven’t you already seen too much? Is not that the reason you have sought me out?”
I lowered my head.
“You are part of this, Elise. So tell me what you have observed.”
Champillon was correct. I had come here because I needed a confidant.
So I told Champillon what I had seen. How at first Price had tested me with demands for harmless herbs. Then how he had sent me on stranger errands. I told him about the shops, houses and workshops where I had been. I then told Champillon about the increase in mercury, in sulphur and the powders which I knew only by sight.
“It sounds like straightforward alchemical experiments, or at least what we currently know to be alchemy. What type of equipment did you see that night?”
“A large metal barrel. The two men also carried a long pipe into the stables. There was a name on the cart. I could not see all the letters,” I spelt out what I remembered.
“That is an ironworks that produces cannons for the king,” Champillon said.
“Cannons! Do you think he is making a weapon?”
“That ironworks creates not just cannons but cylinders for engines,” Champillon was talking to himself, “If two men can carry it, it sounds more like a part for a machine.”
“The thing he has built whistles and sighs. Smoke appears and disappears - or steam. But I have seen no fire. Maybe it is a metal dragon!”
“It whistles? Then it sounds like a steam engine. It is no dragon, Elise. Have you seen coal delivered to the house?”
“Never, Monsieur. What is a ‘steam engine’?”
“He has never asked my agent for coal. But it must be a steam engine. He must have some fuel - but what?”
“Monsieur, I must ask that you release me from this house. No good can come of these things.”
“No, Elise, you must report to me on everything you see.”
“And what of Pierre, Monsieur Champillon?”
“Pierre?”
“Price’s servant boy. The boy who ran his errands. The boy who was murdered. The boy I replaced.”
Champillon gave me a look of pure disinterest. He had a cold, handsome, aristocratic face. Pierre and I were of no consequence to him.
“What of the men who have followed me?”
Champillon tapped his top lip, “That is of concern. You must be vigilant when you run your errands. I will meet you in this place each week, Elise. We will learn Price’s secret. And stop him before he does harm.”
“Can I trust you, Monsieur?”
“Of course, Elise,” Champillon’s eyes were flinty, “You are to meet me here, at midday, in a week’s time. Can you remember that?”
“Of course. Monsieur.”
“Bring me the lists then.”
Champillon stood up, glancing shrewdly at the other patrons. He left the café and strode toward the boulevard.
His figure was upright, dignified and unconcerned. He was returning to his world of fine carriages and dinner parties. I left the café and turned the other way, following the lanes which led home to the Rue Belle.
Chapter Six
My suspicions were confirmed but then made worse. Not only was this house the place of dark magic, I myself was part of it.
Price was using the powders and chemicals for alche
my. I had given him the means to create limitless mixtures and potions. He had mercury, sulphur and elements of which I did not even know the name. Little wonder that there were so many coins in the kitchen each morning; Price made them in his own forge. The shopkeepers had good reason to look at me closely and to utter my master’s name with such reverence. My master was an alchemist, the creator of gold itself.
Traditional alchemists sought the source of life and gold, but Price was even more sinister. What was the end purpose of his experiments? The construction of a metal monster in the garden house - a steam engine? A beast that whistled and howled and snorted smoke and steam? Had I unwittingly contributed to its creation? When did he plan to unleash this beast upon Paris?
The unnatural silence of the house was unbearable that night. The flames flickered in the empty rooms, which seemed eerier than ever. There was no request to prepare dinner or do any of the normal things of a household. There was no one to confide in, no one to reassure me. My life had been turned upside down again. It was not good fortune that I was here, as Sister Agatha and Brother Thomas believed. I was here as part of a plan, over which I had no control.
I had wandered so innocently through the house. Perhaps Price did come inside when I was still awake. I shivered as I realised any of these shadows might be his.
I crept up to the attic, locked my door and wrote down my conversation with Champillon, but when I saw the words, they frightened me more, and I folded the paper over and over and hid it in my diary. I threw myself on my bed and tried to sleep.
When I came downstairs the next day, I found a terse note in the kitchen.
Elise, you have not obtained the powders I requested yesterday. As the coin is here, I presume you have neglected your duty. Please ensure you purchase the powders today, together with the following quantities of mercury. A. P.
P.S. A number of books in my study have been disturbed. I trust you will return my bookshelves to good order.
I had indeed left Price’s study in a mess. I had taken every book on alchemy from the shelf and left them strewn across the desk. The eyes of animal-headed gods, and lizards devouring their own tails, stared at me from the open pages. With a heavy heart, I placed the books on the bookshelves, patting the evil library into place.
I took the muddy note from my pocket and smoothed it out. I had no choice. Champillon had told me to carry on as normal.
Paris looked stark when I set out that morning. It was as if I could see the very bones of the city. For the past few weeks, I had been intent on fulfilling my errands, distracted by the charm of a square or a garden, pleased with myself when I found my way home by a new route. Perhaps I even had a certain pride in being the maid of the Champillon house. Now all I had known had fallen away. I saw the world clearly now and it was skeletal and harsh. In this city of scurrying beings, I carried the darkness of my master’s tasks with me. The city, hostile and frowning, had known my secret all along.
The materials Price required were from a shop near the Île St-Louis. I wondered if Price chose so many different shops so that no one shopkeeper would know exactly what he was buying.
If this was so, he was not successful. Even that day, the man at the counter read the list carefully and said, “A.P. I presume this is for Albert Price?”
I nodded silently. My master was not famous, but notorious.
On the way home, I stared at the leaning houses with the gaping windows and archways that looked like hollow mouths. People drifted in and out of the shadows. Paris was a city of nightmares and fiends. I had no idea who was watching.
I decided to change my habits. Over the next week, I took longer and more complex routes home, ensuring no one could follow me. I would eye my fellow customers closely, walk silently among them and make sure none noticed me leave the shop. Outside I would scan the street, and change direction many times. Each passer-by I regarded with suspicion. My dark glare unsettled even the strongest men. I had a feeling that Price’s enemies were everywhere. Motivated by greed or curiosity, these strangers were encircling him and his laboratory. But they would not learn his secrets from me.
Champillon was waiting in the café on Thursday. He had his usual expression of disdain and arrogance, but I had never been more happy to see him.
“Is all in order?” he asked.
“Yes. Price was annoyed I missed his errands last week, but I fetched what he needed the next day, and he has not asked any more about it.”
“The lists?”
I handed the lists to Champillon. He read them closely.
“Each day he asks for more mercury.”
“I see.”
“It’s a small quantity, but if he adds it all together, he has a large amount. There is a red powder too.”
“What could that be?” Champillon stroked his chin.
“No apothecaries sell it. I have to go to a shop on the Île de la Cité or a basement in Le Marais to find it.”
“Tell me exactly where you go.”
I described my week to Champillon. It was a relief to have someone to talk to. Champillon listened to everything, what I had seen on my journeys, the shopkeepers I had met, my observations and suspicions. Nothing seemed too trivial for him. When I finished he nodded.
“Very good, Elise. Meet me again next week.”
Encouraged by his words, I threw myself into my tasks. I paid particular attention to Price’s directions, so that I could tell Champillon the exact location of the shops. I divided the shopkeepers and their customers into groups. Some were respectable doctors or scientists. Others were ordinary men and women, dealing in powders or metals. Others were definitely unscrupulous. All of them were unwittingly part of the web Price had spun across Paris.
Aware now of the danger all around, I began to study the lists. I recognised the chemicals and began to suspect that Price added an additional ingredient now and then, to confuse the shopkeepers. I decided to protect his secrets even more strongly. I no longer handed over the list to the shopkeepers. Instead, I memorised the lists and asked for the ingredients myself.
If I sensed the shop owners were too prying, I would confuse them more, by purchasing a substance Price did not want, using the money Madame Bourget had given me to buy food in the market. Or I would buy only half the items from that shop and then go to another which sold the same substances. There was no difference in the quality or appearance that I could see, and I was certain all Price wanted was to conceal his sources from each other. I was determined no one could recreate Price’s experiments.
All of Paris might be watching me, but I was ahead of them.
I told Champillon of my ideas when I next saw him.
“So you get the ingredients from different shops?”
“Yes, so no one knows exactly what Price has.”
“And you are sure there is no difference in the quality?”
“I am sure of it.”
“And you believe that Price tricks the apothecaries by adding an extra ingredient now and then?”
“Yes, he does so in every second order.”
Champillon studied the list, “Which ingredient do you think is unnecessary here?”
“The sodium.”
The corners of Champillon’s mouth rose in a smile, “I think you may be right. You could outwit the members of the Academy, Elise. Give me the other lists and meet me here again next week.”
He got up without saying more, and left the café, stuffing the lists into his cloak.
Champillon’s praise swelled my heart. I had been right about the sodium! And Champillon thought I was cleverer than the learned men of the Academy!
A shadow fell over my brow. Pride was a deadly sin, the nuns used to say. But sins seemed to fester all over Paris. I walked home proudly, ignoring the nuns’ warning.
* * * * *
That night I turned down the lamps and snuffed out the candles as usual, and made my way to bed. Little by little I had stopped lighting the rooms, so that the flames gl
owed only in the halls. There seemed to be no point lighting the way for a master who was never home.
I closed my eyes, but sleep evaded me. When I opened my eyes again, there were shadows on the ceiling. Propping myself up on my elbow, I realised there was a light outside.
The light was coming from one of the downstairs windows. I had left the grand hall only moments before but someone had lit the rooms behind me.
My thoughts immediately flew to robbers. Anyone watching the house on the Rue Belle would know that my master was rarely at home, although why robbers would break in and light the chandelier, was not something that crossed my mind. Throwing on my dress, I crept down the stairs and opened the door onto the landing.
Bright lamps glowed in the front rooms. There were voices below.
One voice in particular caught my ear. It was deep and musical, and the speaker had a slight accent. He also coughed several times, as though he were not well.
I ran down the grand staircase as silently as I could. The door to the sitting room was ajar. Through the doorway, I saw Rabier and the other policeman standing in the centre of the room, listening respectfully to a man who was sitting in the armchair. The armchair faced the room and I could not see the man who was sitting in it.
“I am afraid, Monsieur Rabier, that Pierre was far from satisfactory,” the musical voice was saying, “I am an easy master, and sometimes I am too trusting.”
The man rested his arm on the edge of the chair. I recognised the velvet jacket. I had seen it many times in Price’s study.
“It does not surprise me that Pierre fell in with bad company,” the man continued, “He was of a brash and wild temperament.”
“Certainly, sir, servants are difficult,” said Rabier.
“Tell me again. You say Pierre was last seen in a tavern on the Île de la Cité?”
‘So it would seem, Monsieur Price.”
“A far from pleasant neighbourhood. Pierre was a foolish boy,” Price sighed.