by M C Dulac
Rabier bowed his head, “The shopkeepers say he often carried with him a large amount of gold. We presume, Monsieur Price, that this was your money?”
“Indeed it was. I often require my servants to run errands for me.”
“It is,” Rabier cleared his throat diplomatically, “perhaps not wise to carry so much money in a place like Paris.”
Price’s voice was relaxed and comforting, “I must remember I am in a large city. I am from Switzerland and things are different there.”
“There are regrettably, many rough and dangerous characters about today. Perhaps you might consider keeping an account with your suppliers?”
“I understand. But I prefer to pay in coin. I am a man of science and often have need of rare chemicals. I cannot predict what I will need in my experiments.”
Price prefers to pay in coin to cover his tracks, I thought resentfully from the shadows.
“And, sir,” Rabier looked uncomfortable to be giving advice to his social superior, “it may not be wise to entrust so much money to a boy.”
“Gold is a great temptation for a servant,” Price added with a sigh.
“Indeed, sir.”
“We understand completely, sir,” said the second policeman, “Alas, the gold was gone from the leather bag when we found the boy’s body, although we found this letter in his pocket. It has your seal and is addressed to a gentleman in St-Germain.”
“I see.”
“Do not worry, sir, the seal is intact. The letter is unopened.”
“That is a relief. Yes, the gentleman in St-Germain informed me he did not receive my letter. My new servant has since delivered a second letter to him.”
Price stood up. He was a broad-shouldered figure with dark, wavy hair, tied in a knot at his neck. He wore the velvet coat, breeches and shiny boots. He walked toward the mantelpiece. I willed him to turn around, so I could see his face.
Price lit the edge of the letter with a flame from the candle, then tossed the burning paper into the fireplace.
“It is a very unfortunate business, Monsieur,” Rabier added.
“Thank you for your discretion, Inspector,” Price said, his back to me still, “When Pierre did not return to the house, I assumed he had run away. He was a wayward boy. But even he did not deserve this awful end.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the second policeman.
“Thank you for clearing this up, Monsieur Price,” said Rabier.
I slid behind the staircase as the three men entered the hall. The lamps had not been lit and the hallway was in shadow.
“Let me accompany you to the gate,” Price said as he slipped on his cloak and hat, wrapping a scarf around his lower face.
“You are going out this evening?”
“Yes, I am attending a lecture at the Academy of Sciences.”
Rabier and the policeman murmured respectfully.
The front door closed and the house fell silent again. I entered the sitting room, staring at the glittering chandelier. I had never seen the room aglow. Price must have lit the chandelier himself when he saw the police arrive. Little did the police know that Price rarely sat in this room and that tonight was only a performance.
Price was not well, judging from his cough. Had his experiments made him ill? Perhaps they had disfigured him as well. Why did he wrap his scarf around him on such a warm night? Was his appearance monstrous?
But he was a persuasive monster. Rabier had stood by obediently and not questioned his story at all. Price hadn’t explained why he sent his servants to strange shops in the darkest alleys of the city. He had not told them of the dangerous substances he asked them to obtain, nor of the men who followed them home. He had not told Rabier that the gold they carried was from his own forge. Instead, he had destroyed Pierre’s reputation with no trace of guilt.
His smooth voice angered me. There was a quality to it unlike other voices, a hypnotic charm that made everything he said sound reasonable. I was not so easily fooled. Price was as slippery as the quicksilver in his laboratory. The more I reflected, the more I was certain it was the voice of someone who lied easily and had been running for a long time.
The sweet smell of the beeswax candles filled the room. It was so different from the stench of the alleys and the river, where Pierre had met his end. Confronted with this scent, the glittering mirrors and polished furniture, no wonder the police had believed Price.
I lowered the chandelier. Taking a snuffer from the fireplace, I put out each candle. At last only the plumes of smoke trailed in the darkness, hiding the outline of the room in strange and formless shadows. For that was the truth of this house, not the bright light I had just extinguished.
Chapter Seven
I kept watch from my window in the attic now. I realised that Price emerged from the garden house each night shortly after sunset.
He always went toward the servants’ door and fetched whatever bottles I had bought that day, and then returned to his laboratory. Sometimes he stayed in the garden house all night. On other nights, he locked the garden house and left the Rue Belle either on foot or by a carriage which appeared at the gate. Whenever he ventured from the Rue Belle he wore a hat and cloak, even in warm weather, and his hands were covered by gloves.
Banging and scraping sounds came from the garden house more often now. Steam poured through a hole in the roof whenever the engine whistled. But the engine must not have worked as Price wanted. On the nights when I heard the whistle, Price came out of the stables and paced around the courtyard. Once I saw him rake his hands through his hair, and another time kick the stone wall. He clenched his fists and returned to the laboratory, where more crashes and bangs followed.
He was always in the laboratory well before daybreak.
It was now the last days of summer. Although I could not stay awake all night, I was able to keep watch at sunset and daybreak. One morning, I observed something most unusual. Price had been inside the garden house until I had fallen asleep. When I woke at dawn, the door to the garden house was unlocked.
The blood rushed to my head. Was Price somewhere in the courtyard? Would I at last see him in daylight?
I looked around the garden but saw no one. Then, as the sun rose, the bar on the garden house door began moving by itself. The lock spun as if operated by a ghost.
My pulse raced at the eerie sight. But I felt safer now the sun had risen. I got dressed quickly, and ran downstairs. I stepped into the chill morning air and approached the garden house.
I heard a faint whirr. The lock on the door was still moving. I crept closer and watched warily as the teeth of the vice moved like a millstone. There was a sharp click. The device had locked itself.
Price must be in the laboratory. He had found a way to lock the door from the inside.
I shivered at the strangeness of this new discovery and returned to the house.
* * * * *
If I could not see Albert Price, I was determined to discover his nature in other ways. I was confident now that he never ventured out in daylight, so I began to spend more and more time in his study, the only place that he ever occupied.
There was a madness to his reading, as he left books open and on top of each other. The inkpot was often running low but there was no trace of what he had written.
I was so familiar now with the names of the elements and powders, it did not matter if the books were in Latin or French. When I did not understand the words, I studied the diagrams. Although I began to understand the process, I had no idea of the end. Price’s passion intrigued me, although what he sought eluded us both.
The only other trace Price left of himself were his cloaks and coats. Often a black velvet coat was draped over the chair. On other mornings I found a coat of midnight blue velvet. On yet other days, I found a light cloak lined with purple silk. The fabrics were soft between my fingers and the tailoring was the highest quality.
One afternoon, I sat in the chair by the desk and realised another strange fact. The candle wic
k was not burnt. I had never changed the candle or trimmed the wick. There were no Argand lamps in the study. Price came here only at night. How then did he read? Did he turn the pages and scribble in darkness? The thought was so disturbing, I immediately stood up and ran from the study.
When I next met Champillon, I told him how Rabier had come to the house again and that I had seen Price several times now, and suspected Price slept in the garden house during the day. I described how the lock on the garden house door moved by itself, as though operated from inside.
“An extraordinary contraption,” Champillon said, “You say he sleeps during the day?”
“I believe so, as he works all night. The main bedroom is untouched. I am sure he has never spent a night there.”
“And he has secured the garden house, with this mechanical lock, but disguised it to look like a wooden bar.”
“It is evil magic, Monsieur.”
Champillon gave me a condescending smile, “Do not be so fearful, Elise. Now show me the lists.”
I reached into my pocket and handed across the neatly folded lists.
Champillon read them closely, “Anything else?”
I thought of the strange books in the study, Price’s fine clothes and the candle wick that was never lit. My observations were too strange to tell.
I shook my head.
“Be here next week,” Champillon said as he threw a coin on the table, nodding at the café owner.
I returned to the silent house as usual. My steps took me up the stairs and into Price’s study again. With little else to do, I sat down and began to read the open book on the desk. I had begun to spend many afternoons in the study, observing Price’s research from afar. I knew now the basic alchemical process. First came separation, then distillation and then fermentation.
After this came the mysterious ‘coagulation’:
“when the secret fire has been freed”
On the pages of all the open books that day, were illustrations of this most secret of processes. As the alchemists attempted coagulation, dragons and monsters appeared in their laboratories. Human figures cowered or ran from a ball of expanding light. In one of the oldest books I saw a man with a dog’s head, holding up a bowl.
“Beware the fire of Anubis”, read the inscription in the book.
In another illustration, an alchemist bravely resisted the white light as he reached for the source of the fire.
The light was fading fast behind heavy clouds. Leaving everything just as I had found it, I quietly stepped out of the study.
That night there was a storm and the rooms of the Rue Belle were darker than usual. I took a candelabra with me on my way through the house. I closed the shutters and dimmed the lamps, until the only light came from the candles I carried. The flames streaked through the darkness and my shadow slid and quivered as I climbed the grand staircase.
When I reached the landing, I froze. I had sensed a figure in the hall below. I turned around, but the doorway to the living room was empty. There were no footsteps nor sound. Then something moved near the doorway to the dining room. Again there was no noise.
Only my master would know how to move so silently from the hall to the dining room through the interconnecting door. Was it him in the doorway? How many other times had I sensed something in the shadows? It was true that I had been watching Price each night. However, I shivered to think that he was watching me.
But then, like everything in this house, I could not be certain what I had seen.
I blew out every candle except one and opened the door to the servants’ stairs. I was safely in my world now, in the simple timber beams behind the staircase.
* * * * *
My curiosity about Price’s experiments was growing. But when I passed the study a few days later, I found a book lying on the floor. And in the margin, Price had written one word: “No!”, so violently, ink blots stained the page.
Underlined was a sentence which read:
“.... the fire has been thought fit to be concealed by others that have known it, and while a gateway to something more noble, is not to be communicated without immense danger to the world.”
The word “danger” was underlined several times. What did it mean? The book’s message had sent Price into a rage. I stared at the list he had given me that morning. I had no choice but to fetch him the chemicals. But what exactly was I helping Price to do?
I had to meet Champillon that day. I handed him the lists.
Champillon knew as much as I did about the chemicals and their properties.
“Mercury and red powder. How much does he have now?” he asked as his eyes raked over Price’s words.
“I have fetched him twelve bottles at least.”
“What news of the machine?”
“I have heard the whistling and seen the steam several nights. Price is not happy with it though. On the nights he operates it, he seems angry. I think perhaps, there is a problem with his experiments.”
“A problem?”
“The books on his desk contain terrible warnings. He cannot go further.”
“But from what he has told the Academy, his steam engine is far more advanced than any of ours. His views on containing pressure surpass all our knowledge.”
“Does the Academy have a steam engine too?” I felt suddenly uneasy.
Champillon did not seem to hear my question, “What else have you seen?”
I thought of the book describing Anubis’ fire. But I hesitated. Champillon had a steely look in his eye. Could I really trust him? Maybe I should not share all my secrets.
“Monsieur, I fear that Price’s experiments are almost complete,” I said quickly, “We must stop him.”
Champillon gave a lazy smile, “Of course, Elise. We will stop him. Be here. Next week.”
He rose from his seat and left the café.
I assumed Champillon shared my fear and determination to stop Price. But maybe I was wrong.
I had a sudden fear that maybe Champillon did not want to stop Price. Maybe he wanted Price’s knowledge for himself. And I had just given him the means to replicate Price’s experiments.
The ancients’ warning was clear. The secrets of the alchemists were too dangerous to share. Next week I would leave an item off the list.
I was already working against Price, my master. Now I must outwit Champillon and the Academy too.
Chapter Eight
As the summer entered its last days, Price emerged earlier and earlier into the courtyard. I never saw his face, except in shadowy outline. His posture was tense and furtive and he walked quickly wherever he went. For the two nights after he had flung the book across the floor with the word “No!” scrawled in the margin, there had been silence. Then he had returned to his work with great fury. His requests for mercury and the red powder increased. The steam whistle sounded more often and the banging was louder. Sometimes the garden house door was flung open and he stood in the courtyard, pacing and clenching his fists, as if arguing with an inner demon.
How could I stop his experiments? If I brought him the wrong materials, Price would notice. If I forgot my duties, Champillon would grow angry. If I pretended to fall ill, Madame Bourget would know I was lying. And if I got myself dismissed from Champillon’s service, where would I go and how would I live?
Price had come to embody evil itself. I watched him resentfully from my window. His character was shifty, dishonest, sinister, merciless, treacherous, greedy and insane. His appearance, I decided, must be skeletal, reptilian, spectral and tortured. Being hunted had made him as mistrustful and vicious as a wild animal, with the cunning and amoral mind of a dark magician.
All I knew was that I must not let Price succeed.
Then one day, I was dusting the study when I heard a noise behind the wall. Before I could move, the door from the servants’ staircase opened and a tall, broad-shouldered young man strode into the room.
His brown eyes locked with mine. His chestnut hair was t
hick and glossy and his skin, though pale, had a healthy glow. He wore a white shirt, silk cravat, fine brocade waistcoat, and breeches tucked into his shiny boots. The smile that came to his full red lips was warm and friendly.
“Good morning, Elise.”
I froze with the duster in my hand.
“Excuse me, Monsieur, may I ask who - and how?” I pointed to the open door to the staircase.
“I am your master, Albert Price.”
Price began looking around his study. He lifted books and papers, as he shook his head, “I hope you have settled in well. You have been most efficient and helped my work along enormously.”
His large square hands hunted over the desk and then turned to the bookshelf.
“Flamel. Flamel. Now where is Flamel?” he murmured to himself.
“The book is over there.”
I had read Nicholas Flamel’s treatise on alchemy, not long after Champillon had told me Price’s secret.
“Wonderful, just what I need,” Price tucked the book under his arm, “I am so glad the weather has cleared. I had a dreadful cough, although I suppose that it is because I spend so much time indoors.”
“Are your living quarters in the garden house?” I asked quickly.
I wish he wouldn’t smile so much. He was an exceptionally handsome man. And yet, while his face was young, his eyes were strange. He looked at me the way older people did. I blinked to break the spell.
“The garden house?” Price said.
“I have not dusted there,” I added flatly.
“There is no need.”
“Nor do I tidy this desk.”
“That is fine, Elise.”
“And your laboratory?”
Price raised an eyebrow, “My workshop is fine too. You are certainly thorough, Elise. Do not trouble yourself beyond your duties.”
“As Pierre did,” I was surprised by my boldness.
Price paused. But when he spoke, his voice was kind, “Pierre did not trouble himself with anything. That was his weakness. I had given him a great chance to improve himself. He was from a poor family and had a mother and sisters to support. But alas, he was too easily distracted and walked straight into danger.”