The Alchemist of Paris by M C Dulac

Author:M C Dulac [Dulac, M C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: M. C. Dulac
Published: 2016-07-10T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Dawn came but I cannot remember anything of the day that followed. All I wanted was for the sun to set so that I could see Price again.

I watched the sky from the upstairs window. It turned from blue to orange and then violet. The rooftops of Paris were dark silhouettes. The sun blinked between two houses as it slid towards the horizon.

The shadows in the courtyard were purple. Usually, it would be several hours before Price woke. But tonight, I saw the door to the garden house was open. Price was waiting by the fountain. He stared up at the window, as if he knew I was watching.

I ran downstairs and crossed the cobblestones. Price had his hands in his pockets. His humble manner reminded me of the stable boy in Reveille. It was so hard to believe he was such a wealthy man, as old as Champillon.

“Good evening, Elise,” he bowed graciously.

“Good evening, Monsieur.”

“Did you have a good day?”

“I was waiting for dusk,” I admitted.

“Perhaps I was too,” Price smiled. He gestured for me to sit down. I joined him on the stone bench and watched the last rays of the setting sun.

I tried not to look at his handsome face. Being this close to him set my heart racing.

“I thought you might have some more questions,” Price said.

My mind was spinning with all the things I wanted to ask, “How is the machine?” I began.

“I will let it rest tonight. A crack is forming in one of the pipes. I will have to replace it before I test the machine again.”

“About your other experiments...”

Price raised an eyebrow.

“Have I not convinced you that I am but a simple scientist?” he said with a sad smile, as though he knew the answer.

“Are you really practising alchemy?”

“Alchemy is a magical word, Elise.”

“Is alchemy even possible?”

“Some say alchemy is superstitious nonsense. Others say it is the hidden knowledge of the ancients. Do you believe it is possible to create gold, transform substances and defy death?”

“I do not know, Monsieur.”

“And your next question?”

I frowned at Price’s elusiveness, “Are you an alchemist, Monsieur?”

Price turned to look at me. His gaze was mesmerising, “Do you really want to know? Once along the path, it is hard to turn back.”

For some reason, I thought of that afternoon in Reveille when I had got lost seeking the wild rose. I felt again the deep chill that had come over me as I saw tree after tree but no clear path. But I had got home safely. Eventually.

I nodded quickly.

Price looked at the buttery moon that had appeared above Paris, “If the art of alchemy existed, few people could be trusted to know its secrets. In ancient times, these alchemists were a select group, dedicated to the knowledge.”

“Have you known alchemists?” If Price refused to give a direct answer, I would try to find the truth in other ways.

“Indeed I have.”

“How did they become alchemists?”

“In ancient times, alchemists were chosen after a long apprenticeship. Who could

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