PERE ALEXIS
Koupriane jumped into his carriage and hurried toward St.Petersburg.
On the way he spoke to three agents who only he knew were posted in the neighborhood of Eliaguine.They told him the route Rouletabille had taken.The reporter had certainly returned into the city.He hurried toward Troitski Bridge.There, at the corner of the Naberjnaia, Koupriane saw the reporter in a hired conveyance.
Rouletabille was pounding his coachman in the back, Russian fashion, to make him go faster, and was calling with all his strength one of the few words he had had time to learn, "Naleva, naleva" (to the left).The driver was forced to understand at last, for there was no other way to turn than to the left.If he had turned to the right (naprava) he would have driven into the river.The conveyance clattered over the pointed flints of a neighborhood that led to a little street, Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, at the corner of the Katharine canal.This "alley of the pharmacists" as a matter of fact contained no pharmacists, but there was a curious sign of a herbarium, where Rouletabille made the driver stop.As the carriage rolled under the arch Rouletabille recognized Koupriane.He did not wait, but cried to him, "Ah, here you are.All right; follow me." He still had the flask and the glasses in his hands.Koupriane couldn't help noticing how strange he looked.He passed through a court with him, and into a squalid shop.
"What," said Koupriane, "do you know Pere Alexis?"They were in the midst of a curious litter.Clusters of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and all among them were clumps of old boots, shriveled skins, battered pans, scrap-iron, sheep-skins, useless touloupes, and on the floor musty old clothes, moth-eaten furs, and sheep-skin coats that even a moujik of the swamps would not have deigned to wear.Here and there were old teeth, ragged finery, dilapidated hats, and jars of strange herbs ranged upon some rickety shelving.Between the set of scales on the counter and a heap of little blocks of wood used for figuring the accounts of this singular business were ungilded ikons, oxidized silver crosses, and Byzantine pictures representing scenes from the Old and New Testaments.Jars of alcohol with what seemed to be the skeletons of frogs swimming in them filled what space was left.In a corner of this large, murky room, under the vault of mossed stone, a small altar stood and the light burned in a hanging glass of oil before the holy images.A man was praying before the altar.He wore the costume of old Russia, the caftan of green cloth, buttoned at the shoulder and tucked in at the waist by a narrow belt.He had a bushy beard and his hair fell to his shoulders.When he had finished his prayer he rose, perceived Rouletabille and came over to take his hand.He spoke French to the reporter:
"Well, here you are again, lad.Do you bring poison again to-day?
This will end by being found out, and the police..."Just then he discerned Koupriane's form in the shadow, drew close to make out who it was, and fell to his knees as he saw who it was.
Rouletabille tried to raise him, but he insisted on prostrating himself.He was sure the Prefect of Police had come to his house to hang him.Finally he was reassured by Rouletabile's positive assertions and the great chief's robust laugh.The Prefect wished to know how the young man came to be acquainted with the "alchemist"of the police.Rouletabille told him in a few words.
Maitre Alexis, in his youth, went to France afoot, to study pharmacy, because of his enthusiasm for chemistry.But he always remained countrified, very much a Russian peasant, a semi-Oriental bear, and did not achieve his degree.He took some certificates, but the examinations were too much for him.For fifty years he lived miserably as a pharmacist's assistant in the back of a disreputable shop in the Notre Dame quarter.The proprietor of the place was implicated in the famous affair of the gold ingots, which started Rouletabille's reputation, and was arrested along with his assistant, Alexis.It was Rouletabille who proved, clear as day, that poor Alexis was innocent, and that he had never been cognizant of his master's evil ways, being absorbed in the depths of his laboratory in trying to work out a naive alchemy which fascinated him, though the world of chemistry had passed it by centuries ago.At the trial Alexis was acquitted, but found himself in the street.He shed what tears remained in his body upon the neck of the reporter, assuring him of paradise if he got him back to his own country, because he desired only the one thing more of life, that he might see his birth-land before he died.Rouletabille advanced the necessary means and sent him to St.Petersburg.There he was picked up at the end of two days by the police, in a petty gambling-game, and thrown into prison, where he promptly had a chance to show his talents.He cured some of his companions in misery, and even some of the guards.A guard who had an injured leg, whose healing he had despaired of, was cured by Alexis.Then there was found to be no actual charge against him.They set him free and, moreover, they interested themselves in him.They found meager employment for him in the Stchoukine-dvor, an immense popular bazaar.He accumulated a few roubles and installed himself on his own account at the back of a court in the Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, where he gradually piled up a heap of old odds and ends that no one wanted even in the Stchoukine-dvor.But he was happy, because behind his shop he had installed a little laboratory where he continued for his pleasure his experiments in alchemy and his study of plants.
