Alchemy

Chapter One ; ;The Marquis Armand de Cuvier, Lord Beaufort, leaned forward with a sense of satisfaction as he touched the tip of his quill to the white parchment. Quickly the musical notes seemed to flow from his heart (which the marquis felt was the real producer of music!), and something close to rapture touched the composer. He continued to write as rapidly as possible, for he had discovered that when he composed his scores, when the inspiration flowed, nothing must be allowed to interfere. ;The sun threw golden beams through the window to the marquis' right hand, and the warm breezes of May caressed him, stirring his hair gently. Spring had come to France in the year of 1832 almost in a bound, it seemed, bringing out the greenery and causing the flowers to burst in small explosions of color. Even now, as the marquis continued to cover the parchment with musical notes, he was conscious of a sense of well-being. ;The composition had not gone well for some time, and Lord Beaufort had lost sleep over it for weeks. Ordinarily the marquis was a gentle man, soft-spoken, with a ready smile, but when whatever demon it is that clogs up the inspiration in the mind of the composer gripped him, he became short-tempered and hard to live with. His beloved wife, Jeanne, had learned to recognize those times and managed to keep him from the more violent outbursts. The servants also had learned to recognize the marquis' uncreative periods and walked softly around him during those days. ;An ormolu clock beat out a rhythm like soft heartbeats, and once, as the marquis scribbled furiously, from a lower story came the sound of a clock tolling off one-two-three, sprinkling the hours all through the house. The marquis paid no attention to it. When he was composing, he had the gift of closing himself off to almost anything. ;A loud, angry voice from outside his window sounded suddenly, the violence of it breaking into the composer's inspiration. "Cannot I have even a moment's peace?" he cried aloud. ;Anger swept through Lord Beaufort, and with a violent gesture, he flung the quill down and saw a blob of ink obliterate his last few notations. He leaped up, knocking his chair over backwards. It fell with a crash as he moved quickly to the window. At forty-six, Armand de Cuvier was an active man of medium height with wavy brown hair and eyes that were ordinarily warm. Just now, however, they seemed to flash, sending off flecks of light. Leaning over the window and looking down, he saw his gardener, Philippe, a huge man of forty, grasping a stranger by the arm. Philippe was shouting something, and the young man he held was trying to respond. ;Suddenly Philippe's massive arm moved, and his fist caught the visitor high on the forehead. He fell backwards as if poleaxed and lay without moving. ;"What in the world is going on down there, Philippe?" ;"This fellow insists on seeing you, my lord. He would not take no for an answer." ;"Well, I think you've killed the fellow. I'll be right down." ;The marquis hurried out of the room, stepping lightly down the stairs, through the hallway, and outside. He walked quickly to where Philippe was picking up the young fellow. ;"Now, what's all this about?" ;The young man Philippe gripped tightly by the arms was six feet tall but not strongly built like the gardener. His eyes were focused, at least, and the marquis saw that they were of a brilliant, cornflower blue. His hat had been knocked off, revealing thick hair of an auburn tint that caught the sun. He had a wedge-shaped face, a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep-set. When he saw the marquis, he tried to bow, but Philippe held him tightly. "Monsieur, IMorris, Gilbert is the author of 'Alchemy', published 2004 under ISBN 9780785270041 and ISBN 0785270043.