The Alchemist of Paris

by M C Dulac

  Elise had only one choice. Just as Champillon procured a death certificate for himself and an empty tomb in his family crypt, Elise du Bois had to be dead to the world too, finding a resting place in an empty grave near Reveille. Close by was another grave, of a young man from Switzerland, whose unmarked tombstone was often visited by a young woman late at night.

  Elise du Bois was no more. A year after the fire, a certain Ellie Forrest arrived in London, to begin a new life. And although her benefactor, Champillon often wrote to her over the years, she soon lost contact and began her life of wandering.

  * * * * *

  But now, two hundred years on, they were side by side again, walking through a wild and ruined garden in the middle of Paris. The pink sky had the dull tinge of a modern city, so unlike the startlingly clear skies of centuries before.

  “Why do you want to return here?” Ellie asked, “The house is a ruin.”

  “This was one of the oldest houses in my family.”

  “It will take a lot of work to restore.”

  “I can do it,” Champillon stared at the vine-covered walls.

  “Why did you ask me to find it?”

  “Who else could I trust? And who else is so resourceful?” he smiled, with only a hint of his old proud self. Just like the old days.

  Ellie brushed away a rose and stared at the grand house, “It won’t be like before.”

  “It never is. All things change in time, Ellie.”

  “But has this place changed? The earth is still burnt.”

  “The wall has blocked the daylight. The earth has never had a chance to recover. But there are blades of grass.”

  Ellie saw a few shoots struggling bravely among the ash.

  “More will grow, if encouraged,” Champillon took a bottle from his pocket. He knelt down and let the drops fall on the soil, “Like the eternal tree in the cemetery.”

  “You have read the diary, then!”

  “I have read it many times. And I have often wandered the same paths as you and Price. The tree exists to this day, greener and taller than any other.”

  They stood back and watched the ground. Nothing happened immediately. It took time for the potion to change a substance. They strolled on through the high grasses.

  “I don’t want any more locked doors,” Champillon said, “The secrets behind them just grow darker.”

  “Perhaps some doors should be locked,” Ellie said sadly.

  “You would never have been happy with Price,” Champillon added, “He did not have the strength of character one needs for this life.”

  Ellie hung her head.

  “I know you loved him. And I know that love is why you left, all those years ago.”

  Champillon’s words tore at her heart.

  He spoke kindly, “Remember, wine is from grapes, grapes from seeds, the seeds from the soil.”

  “You are speaking of alchemy?”

  “Not of alchemy but the secret of survival. Just as substances change, human beings must change.”

  Ellie stared at the diary.

  “I am no longer the man in those pages,” Champillon said, “That world has vanished, long ago.”

  Ellie blinked at the setting sun. The sunbeams hurt her eyes so often nowadays.

  “One thing time has taught me, is that immortality is a lonely place,” he said softly.

  Hadn’t she known it was him, when he had asked her to find the house? But now he was here, she was uncertain, all over again. She stared at a fine line of cloud, left by a passing plane, far overhead.

  “I should go,” she said at last.

  He looked pained.

  “I’m glad you found the house. It deserves to be restored.”

  “Whatever you wish, Ellie.”

  She turned to leave. She stared at the ruined gates and the cobblestone lane. The past was a different place. The old Rue Belle had gone forever. Beyond the passage was a new world.

  Champillon stood in the late afternoon shadows, no longer a nineteenth century aristocrat, but a man of modern times. He was right. It was a new world now.

  Maybe she should put the past to rest.

  “Well, I might have time for dinner,” she said.

  Champillon broke into a broad smile. They walked along the passage together, opened the door and stepped into the Paris street.

  THE END

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  * * * * *

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE ALCHEMIST OF PARIS SERIES

  *

  THE ALCHEMIST OF LONDON (available 17 April 2020)

  Continues the story of Elise in 19th century London

  THE ALCHEMIST OF ROME

  The story of Albert Price’s nemesis in 18th century Italy

  *

  MORE ABOUT THE ALCHEMIST OF LONDON

  In Victorian London a young woman hides a book in a library, hoping it will never be found...

  In modern day London the same book appears at an international auction...

  The pages contain priceless secrets which will obsess and transform all those who read them.

  Haunted by the fire in Paris, Elise has at last found peace in the English countryside.

  But her idyll is broken when a ruthless gentleman learns of a book by the elusive Albert Price - and uncovers Elise’s secret.

  The book is hidden somewhere in Victorian London. Elise must not only find it before her enemies, but also face her own destiny - in a world where the secrets of alchemy are in greater danger than ever before.

  Meanwhile as auction day approaches in modern London, and the book is in peril again, can Ellie unravel the Victorian mystery in time?

  Turn the page for a preview of The Alchemist of London:

  PREVIEW OF THE ALCHEMIST OF LONDON

  BOOK TWO OF THE ALCHEMIST OF PARIS

  Prologue

  London, England, October 1848

  The book was bound in green silk and the delicate threads captured the moonlight. When Elise opened the cover, the letters danced before her, glittering swirls rising from the loops and flourishes. The words skipped across the pages, as if guiding the reader through a wonderful labyrinth of secrets.

  For this was no ordinary book.

  The River Thames was flowing fast that evening. Along the riverbank, gas lamps blinked through fog and smoke. London echoed with the never-ceasing rumble of carts, carriages and coaches. Beneath the hum, came the distant sigh and whistle of steamboats, the song of a mechanical century.

  Elise stood on the high terrace. If she threw the book into the river, the water would seep through the paper and drain the ink from the pages. If the book did not sink, the tide would take it out to sea and the salt water would corrode any remaining secrets.

  She had no doubt she must destroy the book. Barnabas Wyatt’s men were searching London for it at that very moment. Wyatt would never give up the search, now he knew of the book’s existence. For him the book of alchemy held the promise of endless wealth, and the secret of the elixir of life. And hadn’t the book caused enough trouble already? She was a fugitive and had placed all her friends in danger. She had gone through many trials and challenges to find it. Returning the book to the elements was the best thing to do.

  She did not have long. She raised her arm, ready to throw the book into the black waters. She took a deep breath, concentrating on a spot in the middle of the river.

  But she could not do it.

  Far along the Thames, a clock tower was chiming the quarter hour. Soon she must meet the carriage in St. James - her only chance to escape from London. Reluctantly she turned around and began walking towards the West End. She hugged the book close, regretting that she had not thrown it into the water when she had the chance. She could not take the book with her on her journey, but she could not bear to destroy it.

  When she reached St. James, there
was no carriage in sight. A gentleman tipped his hat curiously and she quickened her pace. A young lady in fine clothes was not usually alone at night.

  Her eyes followed the black railings of the grand townhouses. Ahead was a plaque on a wall. Her footsteps had taken her back to the Institute of Sciences.

  The door was open. Maybe fate had decided for her.

  She slipped into the hallway. Men’s voices murmured and plates clattered behind a closed door. To her right was a small library.

  One man was tidying the books in the far corner. Another man dozed in an armchair. No one had noticed her enter.

  The safest place to hide a flower was in a meadow. The safest place to hide a tree was in a forest. And therefore the safest place for a book was in a room full of them.

  Careful of her long skirts, Elise climbed a ladder. Her eyes perused the shelves until she saw the oldest spines, faded with age. She quietly opened the bookcase and tucked the green book into the top shelf.

  She patted the spine. The book had no title and no author name. Only a few people knew who had written it and fewer believed the author had ever existed. It was the only book ever written by Albert Price, the alchemist.

  If Elise had thrown the book into the Thames, it may have washed up on the riverbank or on an island far in the ocean. But here, in a quiet and obscure library, it could sleep for centuries.

  A clock in the hall struck nine. She ran quietly down the front steps. Coaches plodded leisurely along the street, delivering wealthy residents to their dinners and clubs.

  No one noticed a carriage as it pulled to a halt.

  “Miss Elise?” the driver said. He had a kindly face, obscured by his high top hat. “Long journey to the coast, but it’s a good night for it. There’s a full moon beyond those clouds.”

  Elise nodded and climbed inside. The carriage set off and Elise watched the city pass by. She was saying goodbye to London and England and did not know when she could return.

  Albert Price was a master alchemist, who knew the secrets of the elixir of life. And she - Elise Du Bois also known as Ellie Forrest - was an alchemist by chance, an uncertain successor and apprentice, about to embark on new journeys and challenges.

  Barnabas Wyatt would never find the book, she told herself, but a tinge of doubt weighed on her mind.

  A doubt that stayed with her for many years afterwards.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR MORE

  CHEYNE WALK, CHELSEA EMBANKMENT, LONDON, ENGLAND, PRESENT DAY

  Rare Alchemy Book appears at Auction

  Ellie paused as the message appeared on the screen of her laptop. She sank into the chair before her sleek desk, placing her glass of iced tea on the table.

  Outside traffic murmured on the Chelsea Embankment. The Thames glided under the bridges of London and the city shimmered in the late evening haze. Warm light streamed through the windows of the rooftop apartment and classical music drifted from the speakers in the corner. The apartment was bright and airy, furnished in a modern style that belied but strangely complemented the exterior of the 17th century townhouse in which it lay.

  A few months ago, Ellie had stopped in London on her way to Paris, where she had been asked to find a house. She had not suspected what she would find there, or maybe she had, but that was another story.

  Now her old life was ending and she was preparing to start anew. Items had been shipped and lists ticked off. A suitcase lay open on the floor. Everything was ready for her return to Paris.

  A droplet of water streaked down the side of the glass. Ellie bit her lip as she opened the message.

  The email came from “Sebastian Worth” although the man who wrote it signed off as J-LC. Usually any message from Jean-Louis lifted her spirits, but seeing these words made her uneasy, as though something sinister was stirring.

  Her phone rang. His voice was deep and reassuring, with an alluring accent that made her heart grow warm.

  “Mr. Worth,” she said with emphasis.

  “Ellie,” she sensed a smile in his voice, “I’ve just forwarded you an email from an auction house.”

  “So should I call you Sebastian or Jean-Louis?”

  “Sebastian Worth is a well-known collector of rare scientific books. Jean-Louis Champillon’s arrival in the auction world may raise eyebrows.”

  “If only they knew the real truth.”

  “I wanted your opinion on this book.”

  Ellie ignored her unease. She clicked the link and arrived on the webpage of a London auction house. There was a photograph of an antique book with a green silk cover.

  “The book is going to auction in London in a few days time.”

  “Where did they find the book?”

  “It is part of a deceased estate.”

  Ellie’s heart quickened, “There is another picture.”

  “Yes, a photograph of the first page.”

  All her doubts were dispelled once she saw the distinctive cursive writing, “It is Albert Price’s.”

  The bright light in the photograph had hidden the strange qualities of the ink. But the handwriting was Albert Price’s and she remembered reading this very page, years ago. Seeing it again awakened strange memories. So much time had passed. What had happened to the book since then? Why was it being offered for sale and why had it surfaced in London now?

  “I thought so. I did not know Price wrote a book,” Champillon went on.

  “Have you spoken to the auction house?” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “I made a discreet enquiry. The auctioneer said he has several offers already. Unfortunately that means the book might go for a very high amount.”

  “Because it is written by Albert Price?”

  “I don’t know which book is attracting so much interest.”

  Ellie scrolled upwards. The page was headed:

  A Victorian gentleman’s collection

  A unique opportunity to acquire the private library of a prominent Victorian gentleman. This outstanding collection dates from the 17th century and includes notebooks and working papers of Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Paracelsus and notable figures in the field of science.

  Clicking on the green book, she noted the description:

  A 17th century book containing scientific observations and what appear to be alchemy symbols. Author unknown.

  History had given a special place to Isaac Newton and Paracelsus. Albert Price was long forgotten, except to those who knew him.

  Ellie read the description of the estate again and shivered despite the bright sunlight.

  “Who owned the book?”

  “A man called Barnabas Wyatt,” Champillon said.

  Time seemed to stand still.

  The music had stopped. Traffic buzzed outside and a horn sounded on the Thames.

  “Barnabas Wyatt,” Ellie murmured.

  “Barnabas Wyatt or B. J. Wyatt, died recently. The “Victorian Gentleman” is his ancestor. The 19th century Wyatt was a lawyer by profession and not a very pleasant man, judging by his writings. Later in life he was intrigued by alchemy and presented some papers to the Academy. He was wrong on many points, but he must have stumbled across genuine alchemy at some time.”

  The wind was rustling the flowers in the window box. There was a change in the evening air, similar to a change she had experienced long ago. A sense of danger shattering this blissful illusion, jolting her from safety. Long forgotten images filled her mind. Of entering a silent library and placing a book on a shelf, safe and forgotten.

  How had Barnabas Wyatt found the book?

  “Ellie?” Champillon said with concern.

  “I’m here. When did this man die?”

  “In January.”

  “This year?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And he did die?”

  “I saw the death notice.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing more than that? This family owned a book that contains the secret to the elixir of life. Barnabas Wyatt had the ab
ility to live forever.”

  “I believe these men died naturally. It is mere coincidence the descendants have the same name. So you believe the book is significant?”

  “Very.”

  Champillon’s voice was calm, but thoughtful, “Ellie, you sound distressed. I will be in London at the end of the week. I will make sure I am successful at the auction - no matter what I have to bid.”

  “Jean-Louis, this book is important. It should have been destroyed long ago,” Ellie murmured.

  “It was remiss of Price to leave it behind.”

  “It was not Albert Price’s fault,” Ellie said, “And it is such a beautiful book. I can understand why he did not destroy it.”

  She looked at the illustration of the sun and moon in harmony, shining down on a tranquil garden.

  Below were the words:

  Selected items on display at our rooms on Bond Street.

  “I will keep it safe this time,” she said.

  Champillon paused, “Have you seen the book before?”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “Many years ago. I haven’t thought of those years for a long time,” Ellie rubbed her temples. Her heart raced and she felt dizzy, “The book contains Albert Price’s writings. He was a young alchemist then and had no one to confide in except his notebooks.”

  “I did not know.”

  “We need to buy it.”

  “Ellie, please do not worry. I merely sought your opinion. I am used to finding this sort of material. Too many powerful people are interested in alchemy these days. Most of what they buy is useless, but anything from Albert Price -”

  “He was a true alchemist.”

  “Let us forget it for now. Have you finished packing?”

  Ellie glanced around the apartment. Boxes stood in the corner, “Almost.”

  “I am so glad you are coming home to Paris.”