The Alchemist of Paris Read online

  The

  Alchemist of Paris

  By

  M. C. Dulac

  BOOK ONE OF THE ALCHEMIST OF PARIS SERIES

  Copyright © 2016 M. C. Dulac

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights reserved, no part of this work can be reproduced, adapted, displayed, performed, distributed, scanned or transmitted by any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying or otherwise) without the express written permission of the copyright owner.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Extract of The Alchemist of London Copyright © 2020 M. C. Dulac

  * * * * *

  Cover Design by Adriana Hanganu, adipixdesign.com

  Table of Contents

  Paris, Present Day

  Original Text of the Journal of Elise du Bois 1820

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Paris, Present Day, Sunset

  Preview of The Alchemist of London

  About the Author and other books

  Paris, Present Day

  Paris in July was in a carefree mood, but the young woman walking fast through the crowds before Notre Dame Cathedral was troubled.

  Ellie Forrest had come to Paris to find a house for her client, Mr. Worth. Finding a house seemed an easy task, until the paper trail kept evaporating like a ghost. Maps that should have been there, had vanished. Surveys had been removed. Impossible as it seemed, somewhere among the fine streets alongside the most famous river in the world, lay a house that no one had noticed for almost two hundred years.

  Clouds rolled across the summer sky. Ellie gazed up at the all-seeing gargoyles of the Cathedral. The Seine was suddenly bathed in golden sunlight and the right bank of Paris glistened in the afternoon sun.

  Then her phone gave a sharp ring. She frowned as she saw Worth’s phone number.

  “Have you found the house on the Rue Belle?”

  Ellie took a deep breath, “The house has just disappeared.”

  “A house cannot disappear,” Worth’s voice was rich and melodic.

  Ellie had never met Mr. Worth in person. When she had searched for him on the internet, she found he was a respected and wealthy scientist based in Switzerland. He had made many impressive discoveries in medicines and chemistry. However, there were no photographs of him. How old was he? What did he look like? It was impossible to tell from a voice.

  “Okay, the house hasn’t disappeared,” Ellie said, “But perhaps it was destroyed last century.”

  “Have you any proof that it was destroyed?”

  “Not exactly. I can’t find out if the house exists or doesn’t exist. That area of Paris was completely rebuilt.”

  “There must be something.”

  “There’s nothing,” Ellie shook her head, “The lawyers have given me another address.”

  “Yes?” Worth sounded hopeful.

  “It’s a row of apartments.”

  “Have you looked at the Google satellite maps?”

  “Even they don’t help. There’s no rooftop or courtyard in that area that looks like the house on the Rue Belle.”

  Worth sighed.

  “And the lawyers said,” Ellie hesitated, “Plans are missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Plans have been removed from the city records, a long time ago.”

  Worth was silent.

  “Mr. Worth,” Ellie paused, realising she did not know his first name, “This isn’t my area of expertise. I’m a research student.”

  “Of plant biology,” Worth said, “And a very good one.”

  Ellie suddenly wished she were home in her quiet New England university town. Worth had first written to her a few months before. Ellie had just published a research paper on medicinal herbs and been interviewed in a magazine, which had made much of her youth and enthusiasm. In his email, Worth had asked her to obtain a rare lichen for him. After that, he had requested more herbs and powders. The assignments were as intriguing as they were lucrative. Ellie was glad to earn some extra money. And Worth seemed to know exactly how to spark her interest.

  Nevertheless, she almost turned down his offer to find the house. Although how could she refuse a trip to Paris? And how hard could it be?

  “I don’t want you to keep paying me if I can’t help,” Ellie added, “Maybe you should hire an expert. A lawyer or an investigator.”

  “I am sure you can do it, Ellie.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “I would rather you do it,” Worth said, in that smooth, reassuring voice, “It’s a confidential matter and I know you are discreet.”

  Ellie fell silent. What was it about that voice that made his requests so irresistible?

  “Do you have the file I sent you?” he went on.

  “Yes,” Ellie peered in her bag.

  “And the journal?”

  Worth had also sent Ellie a leather-bound book. On the plane to Paris, she had flipped through the handwritten pages. As she read on, she realised the book was not a scientific work but a journal, written two centuries ago. There was something about it that made her feel uneasy.

  “I’m not sure how the journal can help,” she said, “It seems quite - fanciful.”

  “Perhaps you should read it closely. Be careful with it, it’s very valuable.”

  “Mr. Worth, where exactly did you find this journal?”

  His voice was relaxed, “I bought it at an auction house. It was among the possessions of an old family.”

  Ellie breathed in deeply, “At an auction.”

  “Yes. I found it a fascinating read.”

  So Worth wanted to buy a house based on some old maps and illustrations and a very strange nineteenth century diary he had found in a jumble sale. And he was willing to pay Ellie to come to Paris and find it for him.

  The man must have more money than sense.

  “The lawyers say this situation is very unusual,” Ellie added.

  Worth paused, then said, “Keep looking, Ellie.”

  The light on the phone dimmed.

  Ellie stood on the Pont Marie, distracted by the grandeur of Paris. She fought back the thought that had crept over her ever since she started looking for the house on the Rue Belle.

  If a house has been erased so completely from the city records, perhaps there was a good reason why such a house has been forgotten. Surely no good could come of trying to find it again.

  But there had to be an answer.

  Ellie took the file out of her bag. She flipped through the pages as she walked along the riverbank. She read the description again: “a mansion, built on the Right Bank of Paris in 1660, not far from Le Marais, once known as 15 Rue Belle.” According to an old illustration, 15 Rue Belle was a grand townhouse set behind iron railings.

  “... the last known owner of the house was Jean-Louis Champillon, of a noble family which died out in the early 19th century.”

  The city of Paris had changed a lot since the house had been built on the Rue Belle. The Arc de Triomphe, the Madeleine Church and the Eiffel Tower were all landmarks of the nineteenth century, a time when Paris had become the scientific and cultural capital of the world. Even the Place de la Concorde had been cleared and widened, named and renamed
for kings and revolutions. Then in the late nineteenth century, Haussmann, the famous city planner, had demolished whole districts to make way for the stately axis of the new Paris. The labyrinthine streets of old Paris and the Rue Belle were part of a lost metropolis, glimpsed now only around Notre Dame, Le Marais and the Left Bank.

  Ellie found herself walking toward the historic district of Le Marais again, an area she knew well after a week of wandering its streets. Here there were quaint squares and archways, church domes and courtyards. Vans and bikes echoed through the narrow lanes, which were now lined with boutiques and restaurants.

  Ellie stepped into a café. It was well after midday and she was hungry. The French did make bread better than anyone else, she thought, as she ate her baguette. When she finished, she gazed out the window, wondering where to go next.

  As Worth said, there was one other source of information about the house on the Rue Belle. Ellie reluctantly pulled out the leather-bound journal.

  The paper was as brittle as autumn leaves. The letters were elegant and precise. The book was part diary, part confession. It was an extraordinarily detailed account, by someone with keen observation skills and an almost photographic memory.

  And strangest of all, it was written by a young woman who was barely more than a girl.

  Ellie traced her finger over the first page.

  “This is a true account of events occurring in the house on the Rue Belle belonging to Monsieur Jean-Louis Champillon in the year 1820, as witnessed by myself, Elise Marguerite du Bois, maid in the employ of the said master.”

  Ellie was aware of conversations nearby, of a Vespa buzzing outside and the flow of pedestrians. But these words alone held her attention.

  “I am aware as I lie here in the convent of Saint Francis in Reveille, that my life is coming to an end, as has the life of Monsieur Champillon, Monsieur Albert Price and many others acquainted with that house at 15 Rue Belle.

  “Already the news of the fire that consumed the laboratory of Monsieur Price has reached Reveille, a fire which works upon me now, drawing out my life force. I have pretended to sleep when visitors come to my room. I have become quite skilled in deceit, telling these learned men I know nothing about Price and his experiments. But that is not true for I remember everything, clearly.”

  The journal appeared to be authentic. Elise du Bois was a real person who died shortly after the journal was written. The Champillons were an old and noble French family who had owned a house on the Rue Belle. The last known Champillon, Jean-Louis, had disappeared around the time of the fire. Ellie had found no trace, however, of the man known as Albert Price. If Price was a scientist, he was obscure. His experiments and laboratory had never entered the history books. Neither the Academy of Sciences nor the memoirs of the famous scientists of the time, had ever mentioned him.

  Even if these people existed, the experiments and discoveries Elise described were fantastical. It was mere coincidence that the diary was about real individuals and a real mansion. It was easy to dismiss this story as the feverish imaginings of a dying girl, who had crafted a story of mystery and suspense in her final days. But why then, had the house she had written about, been deliberately hidden from the city records?

  Ellie must be missing something. So much else had survived through the ages, particularly in Le Marais. Elise had written in the journal about many of the landmarks she had seen on her daily errands.

  “There is a pretty square, not far from the Rue Belle, surrounded by fine pink townhouses. Behind the railings is a park with trees planted in rows. The branches are clipped into square shapes like soldiers. I tried to wander in the park one day, but a guard told me that I am not allowed.”

  This must be the Place des Vosges, the seventeenth century square in Le Marais. Ellie had walked through the square a few moments before.

  “The river is not far away. The banks are dirty and all sorts of men toil there. But in the distance I can see the spires of Notre Dame, the greatest Cathedral in all of France.”

  The covered bridges and workshops of Elise’s time had all gone, and now tourists and Parisians strolled along the wide walkways by the river.

  “The way from the Seine to Le Marais is as familiar to me as the forest paths of Reveille.”

  Ellie had walked from the Seine to Le Marais just now. There was no doubt she was in the right place. Could Elise’s journal give her any more clues to the location of the house? She flipped through the pages.

  “My master, Monsieur Price, has asked me to go to the sign of the Three Hands again, although I dislike the place. He buys powders for his experiments there.”

  In Elise’s time there were no maps and no street signs. When few people could read, the easiest way around the city was by looking for the signs or symbols hanging above shops. But with the old shops long gone, how could the journal guide Ellie through this lost world?

  “The Three Hands is in a shadowy part of Le Marais, and often I cannot see the sign. I remember the way to the Three Hands by the tower on the corner, with the shiny brass bell.”

  Ellie must not look at Paris as it now was, but as it was then. Her eyes drifted to the corners of the street, avoiding the modern logos and shop signs. In the distance above a boutique was a tower, in which hung a small bell.

  Ellie turned a page, as Elise’s observations continued.

  “Not far from The Three Hands is a colonnade...”

  Ellie took her last sip of coffee. She slipped her bag across her shoulders, keeping the journal close. She walked swiftly toward the corner, looking up at the bell tower. Turning, she saw a colonnade in the distance.

  “Beyond the colonnade is a passage.”

  The colonnade was full of cafés, strong with the scent of cinnamon and coffee. Beyond was a narrow passage. Ellie kept walking, glancing from the journal to the streets.

  “I always look out for the carved lions above the doorway near the church.”

  Where were the lions? The directions were confusing. Half of what the journal described was there, but half was not. A little further along, Ellie saw a church, with a door leading into a courtyard. Above the door were two lions.

  “The Rue Belle lies straight ahead, at the top of a small hill. I am glad to see its gates, for it is the safest place for me in Paris.”

  The streets rose gradually, but there was no hill in sight. The pavement was blocked by a parked van and men were digging up the road.

  “There is a garden behind the railings.”

  One of the grand houses of Le Marais - the hotel particuliers of the eighteenth century - was nearby. A long geometric garden lay behind a hedge. Ellie quickened her pace, certain she was on the same path as Elise.

  The lane turned again. In the distance came the rumble of traffic on the Rue de Rivoli.

  Ellie realised that she had been here on her first day in Paris. Behind her were the landmarks of old Paris, just as Elise had described them. But before her was a straight road, leading to the boulevard.

  Maybe Ellie had the answer at last.

  Haussmann’s grand plans for building nineteenth century Paris had pierced right through the heart of the Rue Belle. The house whose secrets Elise had been so anxious to preserve was gone.

  Worth’s quest was in vain.

  “I’m glad,” Ellie said to herself.

  Ellie walked toward the boulevard. The doorknob alongside her was carved into the shape of a human head, with the eyes shut. It was an unusual and slightly sinister carving, obviously very old.

  A little further along the road was a door with another human head, carved in the same style. This time, the eyes on the doorknob were slightly open. Ellie stopped and peered curiously through the keyhole. There was no light beyond.

  Ellie paused by the door again, taking her apartment key from her bag. She pushed the key into the lock. The key stopped halfway. Leaning down, she saw that beyond the keyhole was solid brick.

  She traced her hand along the wooden edges of the door
frame.

  “It’s a false door,” she murmured.

  Ellie ran to the next door. Behind the keyhole was more solid brick. Ellie felt a wave of excitement wash over her. This was not a house, but a wall. A wall that had been built to deceive the eye.

  A wall about the length of a house and its gardens.

  On Ellie’s first day in Paris, Madame Jordan, the lawyer, had sent her to this address. Ellie had seen the doors and assumed they led to apartments. She had crossed the area off her list.

  There was no house here anymore.

  But maybe there was. Behind this wall.

  * * * * *

  Further along the street, Ellie found another door. The doorknob was also in the form of a human head, this time with the eyes wide open. There was a faint light through the keyhole and a strong smell of wet earth beyond.

  Ellie rang Worth.

  “I think I’ve found the Rue Belle. There’s a wall along the street, but the doors are not real. There must be something else behind the wall.”

  “What is the address?”

  Ellie took the file from her bag, “There are several. I sent you the addresses in my email on Tuesday,” she turned a page, “The new street is at a different angle to the Rue Belle. That’s why the old maps don’t match up.”

  She heard a noise, as though Worth was also flipping through pages, “That’s it,” he said, “It must be,” there was more noise of papers being turned, “Now it all makes sense.”

  She heard clicking in the background, as though Worth was typing at a computer. After a minute he said, “Go to the lawyer’s office now and collect the keys.”

  “But wait,” Ellie said, “Are you sure this is the right place?”