The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  “What is he doing?” Champillon whispered.

  “I thought this time could have been different,” Price said, although none of the bankers were listening to him, “I believed that I could break the alchemist’s curse. I have lived more than my life already. I am tired of running and I have nowhere else to run.”

  I stepped closer, “Albert, we can still escape.”

  Price stared at me. The hate was gone, and only resignation remained, “No, I cannot. Every alchemist is hunted down in the end. And the day comes when they have no more will to fight.”

  The bankers had found some coins and were holding the coins to the light, oblivious to our conversation.

  “I believed in our future. Indeed you probably told the truth that was true at the time. But look what I have already done to you. These secrets turn us all into liars. You are better than this life.”

  I looked around. The bankers blocked the doorway. But maybe there was another way out.

  I reached out my hand, “Come with me, Albert.”

  Price shook his head.

  “I have no choice,” Price said, “They have found me at last. Look at them. What would these men do with my knowledge? Imagine the war and havoc they would unleash. I must protect our secrets. It is my last duty, as an alchemist.”

  “What is he doing?” Champillon whispered in my ear.

  Price stood in the centre of the room, the unlit bonfire behind him. Never had he looked so handsome, so lost and so frightening. He held the bottle of red powder aloft. He stared darkly at the bankers, then straight at me.

  “Go to the back of the room, Elise,” Price said.

  The red granules glinted in the jar.

  He raised his hand, as though he was sending me a kiss, “I forgive you.”

  Then he stared at the bottle as he lifted the lid.

  His voice was dry, “It ends the same way every time.”

  I stepped backwards. A dazzling light filled the courtyard. It was brighter in the laboratory, where I heard the bankers applauding. The air grew warmer and warmer. I sought the cool stone walls of the house, but the light was coming for me.

  The light turned to fire and the whole world disappeared.

  * * * * *

  They found me, so the sisters said, on the cobblestones in the yard. The laboratory was a blackened ruin. In it lay the bodies of those who had witnessed the experiment and the charred remains of an extraordinary machine. I was barely injured, as apparently occurred in some explosions.

  They wait for me to get better, but I never shall. What Price and the alchemists were guarding humanity from, was not the secret of life and the corrupting force of wealth, but the secret of death.

  I hope his lists were lost in the fire, for it is wrong that anyone should attempt his experiments again. I do not know how many other true alchemists are in this world but I pity them, and thank them, for their bravery in protecting us from this destruction.

  My hand is weak as I write this. The sun is setting. If Champillon had not arrived, perhaps Price and I could have escaped that evening. We could have traveled the world as Price’s old master and mistress had done, guardians of the ancient magic.

  I have given away no secrets in this diary, only a warning to those who seek to challenge heaven, or scale the cliffs of hell.

  Au revoir Reveille! Au revoir to the poplar trees and the riverbank, and the birds and forests. I am glad you are the last place I shall see.

  The sun sinks now and night begins.

  There is a figure by my doorway now. He looks like, but that could not be, for he was destroyed in that fire.

  And yet, he has taken off his cloak, and he is getting closer...

  Paris, Present Day, Sunset

  The diary ended.

  So that was it.

  Were the alchemists right to conclude that human nature was so tarnished that it could never be trusted with the full secrets of the ancients?

  Or was there another way to live?

  Ellie turned to the last page and read the last line again:

  “All things are for a reason and all things align in time.”

  Perhaps that time had come.

  Ellie’s phone rang. The electronic noise echoed around the empty attic and jolted her out of her musings.

  “I’m approaching the house now,” Worth said. It was the same silky voice but more familiar now. Who did it remind her of? “I will meet you at the door.”

  “See you soon, Mr. Worth.”

  “See you soon, Ellie.”

  She had been so absorbed in the story, she had forgotten where she was. Now the sounds of modern Paris filled her ears - the roar of a motorbike in the street below, a siren singing in the distance, a few notes of music from a passing car.

  The sun was sliding behind a rooftop and the attic was suddenly full of shadows. There was no electric light in the house and Ellie doubted there were any candles after all this time. Soon complete darkness would descend upon the rooms, a darkness unknown in the twenty-first century.

  Ellie walked carefully down the narrow servants’ staircase. She opened the door onto the landing. Glimpsing the study where Price had once poured over his alchemy books, she climbed down the grand staircase. She crossed the hall where Elise had dimmed the lamps each night and imagined voices echoing around the dome - the voices of Price and Elise, of the police inspector Rabier, of Champillon and the bankers. She walked down the passage where Madame Bourget had carried a candelabra that first evening, and where later, Price had waited to speak to Elise. She passed the old kitchen, where each evening, Elise had eaten her meals alone and reflected on the mysteries of the house.

  Leaving the ruined house, Ellie stepped into the courtyard. The breeze carried a dizzying scent of wildflowers and rotting foliage. Ahead was the fountain, now strangled by weeds. The seat on which Price had sat and gazed at the moon was hidden deep in the high grass. Beyond the wild rose bushes was another seat, where Price and Elise had sat together and talked, that last afternoon. Deep in shadow now, was the dark patch of earth, all that remained of Price’s laboratory.

  The garden was beautiful in the setting sun. Ellie trailed her hands through the grasses as she walked toward the moss-covered gateposts. The wild untamed trees formed an arch over the passage from the street.

  The door at the end of the passage was slightly ajar. Noises came from the street. Passing vans and motorbikes, two people talking. And then the sound of a car slowing to a halt. Ellie listened as the car door opened and slammed shut.

  Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. Was what she was thinking possible? Or had the house and the journal cast a spell over her? Hadn’t it all been unusual from the beginning? Mr. Worth, the mysterious, reclusive scientist who sought out her botanical skills and then sent her on this mission to find the Rue Belle?

  The narrow strip of daylight was widening. Someone had opened the door from the street. He was walking calmly along the passage, footsteps muffled by the moss. She saw the white collar of his business shirt first, then the dark tie against the finely cut business suit. Tall, confident, moving too elegantly for a modern man. Then he emerged into the green shadows at the end of the passage.

  Short cropped blond hair, slightly greying at the edges. Aristocratic bearing with a glow to his skin that was due to more than just good health. An extraordinarily handsome man.

  He gazed around the ruined garden in amazement. Then he looked straight at Ellie and smiled.

  For a moment they faced each other. There were little changes, that the centuries had wrought. How long had it been since she had last seen him?

  “Good evening, Mr. Worth,” Ellie said at last, with emphasis.

  “Good evening, Elise,” said Champillon.

  “Why Worth?”

  “I had to change my name, after the original trust came to an end. There were no more Champillons that I could pretend to be,” he was gazing at her with a fascination that made her heart race. How did she feel to see him
again? She was surprised at the sense of safety and warmth his presence had on her.

  “So you purchased your own house?”

  “The documents were all in order. I own the trust that owned this house, so it was a simple transaction.”

  “And it was you who hid the maps?”

  Champillon adjusted his cufflink. She remembered his habit of pulling his cuffs when he was agitated. But his smile was sheepish, “After the fire I did all I could to stop the officials investigating. The wall was a temporary measure. When the officials rebuilt the area, I made sure the maps disappeared from the file. I did not want anyone to find this house again. I did too good a job however, for I had lost the house completely.”

  “I had lost it too. I was about to give up.”

  “But the diary led you here,” Champillon said.

  “Where did you find that diary?”

  “At an auction at an old chateau.”

  “One of your chateaux, I presume.”

  Champillon raised his brows and smiled. He stepped closer, “Did you know that I was Worth?”

  “I wasn’t sure. You were very professional when you first contacted me. Your requests were quite reasonable. Although how did you know where to find me?”

  “It has always been easy to enquire about the young researcher, with the astonishing knowledge of botanical science and elixirs, who disappears every few years. How long have you been in America this time?”

  “Two years now. I can stay another ten years at least, before people start to wonder.”

  “You lead the life of the perpetual traveler. I much prefer my own home and my laboratory. Occasionally I release a medicine or invention. Enough to benefit the world and earn me a steady income. A wealthy recluse is always left in peace.”

  They walked through the late afternoon shadows. A few sunbeams pierced the rooftops. The garden looked wild and savage. The formal beauty of the old Rue Belle was long gone.

  “I haven’t read this diary for years,” Ellie said, “Why did you keep it?”

  “It contains precious scientific information,” Champillon said.

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “It is a link to the past,” he added, “Although some of your descriptions of me were far from flattering, Elise. I hate to think I was that arrogant.”

  “Never,” Ellie nodded graciously.

  “Nor that I was that decrepit.”

  “Thirty-six seemed very old,” Ellie said, “It is the diary of a girl in her teens, Monsieur Champillon.”

  “And a lot of time has passed since then,” Champillon said.

  * * * * *

  As the pen had slid from her fingers all those years before, Elise had seen a figure in the doorway. Jean-Louis Champillon. But it could not be, because the nuns had told her everyone in the house had perished in the flames.

  Sister Agatha was standing next to Champillon.

  “I will move her today,” he said. It was Champillon.

  “Are you sure, Monsieur? She is very ill.”

  “It is our only chance.”

  Elise was aware someone had lifted her from the bed and was carrying her down the stone stairs of the convent. The air outside was as cold as a crypt. Her eyelids were closing again and she was falling into sleep. She turned her head and felt the soft wool of a cloak by her cheek.

  “I thought you had died in the fire,” Champillon whispered.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I will take you to Price,” he said, as he carried her to a carriage.

  They left the courtyard as the sun was setting. The fields were golden in the late afternoon sun. The rolling movement of the carriage kept her awake. Elise watched the silver river as it wound through the meadows and around the hills. Beyond the woods, in a valley she had never seen, was a fine chateau.

  “Is this your country house?” Elise murmured.

  “Jean-Louis Champillon is no more,” he said. His skin was smoother and his hair more lustrous, “To the outside world, he died two weeks ago.”

  The carriage rolled through a set of high gates. It ground to a halt in the courtyard of the chateau. A black clad servant greeted them and led them through green hedges to an arched door.

  “I have dismissed all my servants, except one. The town is in mourning for me.”

  “What will you do without servants?” Elise asked.

  Champillon turned, “I will make do, Elise.”

  He carried her up a set of stone stairs and reached a hall. There, in a long drawing room, was a table covered with Price’s vials and equipment. On a bed at the end of the room, lay Price himself.

  He did not look well. His skin was almost translucent and his eyes were dull. But he smiled when he saw her. Elise stumbled to his side and his hand closed around hers.

  “I am so glad you came,” he said. He raised his head, “Champillon, she needs the blue potion. Quickly.”

  “What is it?”

  “The only thing that will help you now. The elixir.”

  Champillon handed her a glass. Elise sipped the glittering liquid and at once the seething fire inside her stopped.

  As darkness descended on the room that night, Champillon explained what had happened. When Price had released the fire, Champillon had been thrown onto the stones in the yard. He had fought the flames long enough to drag Price outside, before the entire laboratory was consumed by the white fire. Seeing Elise lying motionless on the ground, Champillon had assumed he and Price were the only survivors. Jarvin arrived with his cart just at that moment. Champillon waved him down and carried Price to the cart.

  The noise and explosion had brought many people into the streets. Champillon gave Jarvin all the gold he had, and told him to drive as fast as he could to the chateau. With more gold, Jarvin was convinced to tell him the location of Price’s equipment, which he brought to Champillon the next day. For two weeks, Champillon had sat in his chateau, fearful and uncertain, as Paris was in uproar over the alchemist and his deadly fire.

  Then Champillon had heard that Elise was alive and was at the convent in Reveille. She was unharmed by the flames but was nearing death. He had gone to fetch her at once.

  And now they were here safely at last, all three of them, together.

  “You have also drunk the elixir,” Elise said to Champillon.

  He sat silently in his fine chair, “I could not resist. And now - I am alive, but to the world, I am dead.”

  Elise turned to Price, “I’m sorry. I did what I thought was right, but I always seemed to be wrong.”

  “That is the human dilemma,” Price smiled, “And the paradox of alchemy. But tell me, how did you come to be in the Rue Belle?”

  Elise explained as best she could. She took the journal from her cloak and told him how she had written out the whole tale, as she lay in Reveille.

  “I have never had my story written,” Price mused, “You should protect that book.”

  He was not improving. Whatever Champillon and Elise gave him to drink or eat had no effect. He looked paler and paler, like a marble angel.

  “I have lived a long time,” he said, as Elise started to cry, “You forget that I am a lot older than both of you. It is hard to keep up with the times.”

  “But think of all you have done. Think of your engine!”

  “I am not sure,” Price coughed, “if my engine really works. I need to work on containing the pressure. Steam power is of your age, not mine. It is for you, Champillon, to carry on the discoveries.”

  “Have more of this, Price,” Champillon handed him a drink, “Why is the elixir not working?”

  “Maybe my spirit has reached the end,” Price said.

  He fell quiet.

  On another afternoon, Elise sat by his side, reading to him. She had found a book in Champillon’s study, a translation of the play, Romeo and Juliet, by an English playwright called William Shakespeare. At first she read the lines with gusto, but as the lovers faced more and more ill luck and d
isaster, her pace slowed.

  “Keep reading,” Price said, “I know the ending.”

  Elise closed the book.

  “Did you unleash the fire because of me?”

  “I unleashed it because I had to. The bankers were in my very laboratory and I had no means of escape. They had found me at last. And I was broken, very broken.”

  “I had no time to explain.”

  “Do not blame Champillon,” Price said, “He did not realise what he was doing. He was jealous, that was all.”

  “Jealous?”

  “That you had chosen to leave with me,” Price coughed again, “and I was jealous that you stayed with him. I was proud and would not listen. I turned away from you.”

  “Don’t think of it,” she wiped his brow. He had a fever again.

  “It is forever the way of the world. Champillon and I are both at fault.”

  For several weeks, Price sickened. Then one morning, the autumn sunlight streamed through the window. Elise had stayed by Price’s side all night. He raised his hand, as a sunbeam settled on his bed.

  “I am ready, if heaven will have me. I am glad you are here, Elise. Look out for Champillon. He is learning the secrets fast. He understands the knowledge. Remember all I told you. The good and the bad of alchemy.”

  Elise pushed a lock of hair out of his eye.

  “I am glad we met, Elise. Thank you for showing me your world.”

  She could not see through her tears. He wiped one from her cheek, then turned his head to the window.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Price said, “It reminds me of my home.”

  Price closed his eyes and his lips moved weakly.

  “I have lived long and discovered much. It is now your turn.”

  That morning, the alchemist of Paris died. And before him, stood Elise and Champillon, alchemists of a new age.

  * * * * *

  For months after the fire, they had both been in considerable danger. All of Paris knew Elise was the servant who had obtained Price’s powders. Perhaps she was his apprentice; perhaps she was his lover. She must know something, even if she were a mere girl. The shrewder scientists in Paris were eager to find her.