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Marcel Boucher was my best lead. He wasn’t an alchemist. At least, I was fairly certain that was the case. The sixty-year-old historian’s photograph that accompanied his online CV looked like that of a much younger man, but I attributed the discrepancy to the fact that people rarely update their headshots.
I didn’t know Professor Boucher personally. Shortly after the Lost Gargoyle of Paris discovery was revealed, his words were quoted extensively by several news sources, when media outlets were desperate for anyone they could call an “expert” to speculate about the fire. What I found so interesting about Marcel Boucher’s comments was that he was the only expert to be publicly skeptical of the discovery.
Yet after several prominent features were published, his dissenting voice was silenced. All references to Marcel Boucher were stripped from the online versions of the articles. The only reason I remembered his name was because Dorian insisted on subscribing to the print edition of Le Monde.
What was being covered up?
Before leaving the airport and meeting the professor, I needed to make sure Dorian was safe. My suitcase was heavy enough that it felt like he was inside, but I hadn’t detected any movement coming from the bag since the airport worker had handed it off to me.
I dragged the hefty suitcase across the floor of the sprawling baggage claim. Even with wheels, the suitcase didn’t roll fast enough for comfort. As I looked in vain for a spot with a modicum of privacy, the gray and white striped floor seemed to be leading me through a labyrinth that I was unable to escape.
With no privacy to be found, I took another approach. I sat down in a chair near a large tour group, half of whom were listening to their exasperated guide and half of whom were scrolling on their cell phones. I maneuvered my suitcase directly in front of me, took out my phone, and popped my earbud headphones into my ears.
“Dorian!” I said, holding my phone in front of my face. “How are you?”
“You are not going to help me out of this prison?” a deep, muffled, French-accented voice asked from within the suitcase.
“It’s so good to talk with you on the phone.” I held the phone closer to my mouth, which was completely unnecessary since nobody was paying attention to us. “I’m glad to find a moment here at this crowded airport.”
“Ah, so. Je comprends. I am an ‘exquisite creature,’ after all.”
I rolled my eyes, even though nobody was watching me. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything before I get a cab to the apartment.”
I heard a distinct sniff. Oh no... He was injured and trying not to worry me. Another sniff came from within the suitcase. I was about to peek inside, throwing caution to the wind, when he spoke.
“I smell croissants. Freshly baked croissants. If you could procure—”
“The apartment has a kitchen, remember?” He was fine. That’s all I needed to know. “I’ll buy groceries. We’ll be eating soon enough.”
“Alchemists,” he mumbled, “with their misguided belief that patience is a virtue...”
Dorian Robert-Houdin—before he was christened Dorian—was once a stone chimera carved by hand out of limestone from the Seine basin. He was meant to become one of the new stone creatures envisioned by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc during the restoration of Notre Dame in the mid-1800s. Unfortunately, the architect realized the prototype was too small. The carving’s three-and-a-half foot stature was deemed too tiny to see from the courtyard below, so the size of the gargoyles was increased.
Rather than discard the stone carving with a mischievous glint in its eyes, Viollet-le-Duc gave the sculpture to his friend Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin. The famous stage magician gratefully accepted the gift from his architect friend, imagining the little creature with such personality, even in stone, would be a wonderful stage prop. He never suspected that a book of alchemy he read from to create a dramatic scene on stage contained real magic. Nor that the alchemical power was linked to the alchemists who practiced a corrupt and unstable form of alchemy in secrecy—below Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.
Beyond being a sacred place of worship and a secular symbol of France, Notre Dame was much more than most people realized. Among countless other secrets I had no doubt were hidden within its stone walls and wooden beams, the 800-year-old cathedral’s secret connection to alchemy was hidden in plain sight. If a person looked closely at the Christian imagery, they would be rewarded by finding multiple alchemical symbols. A salamander escaping flames unscathed could be found on the cathedral’s façade, symbolizing the Secret Fire. A ladder of seven steps symbolized the steps alchemists followed. And one of the carved saints was defeating a dragon that was actually an ouroboros, the serpent curled in a circle swallowing his own tail, representing alchemy’s cyclical processes.
So I wasn’t surprised there was the alchemical symbol of an ouroboros on the cover of the stonemason’s notebook. It didn’t mean he’d been an alchemist, or that Victor Hugo was. But symbols have power. And as a creative genius in multiple art forms—a novelist, poet, and artist—Hugo possessed a vibrant energy the backward alchemists would love to feed on, especially since his creation had been nestled alongside alchemical energy for so many years.
Energy and transformation are at the heart of all forms of alchemy. A person’s focused intent can create transformations that change an impure metal into pure gold, a wilting plant into a healing elixir, and a mortal body into one that ceases aging. I used my own energy and intent when I practiced alchemy, but not everyone was willing to put in the effort required, and instead sought shortcuts.
Backward alchemists took fundamental concepts of alchemy and distorted them. They believed they could use destructive shortcuts to achieve transformations—by stealing the energy of others. They’d nearly killed a dear friend of mine last year. I was now confident that they’d lost all their power, but what if I was wrong?
So here I was in Paris with a rogue gargoyle, having left behind my loved ones and the precariously comfortable life I’d forged for myself in Portland. I had to make sure the backward alchemists hadn’t returned.