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Grenouille
no
longer
wanted
to
go
somewhere
,
but
only
to
go
away
,
away
from
human
beings.Finally
,
he
traveled
only
by
night
.
During
the
day
he
crept
into
thickets
,
slept
under
bushes
,
in
underbrush
,
in
the
most
inaccessible
spots
,
rolled
up
in
a
ball
like
an
animal
,
his
earthen-colored
horse
blanket
pulled
up
over
his
body
and
head
,
his
nose
wedged
in
the
crook
of
an
elbow
so
that
not
the
faintest
foreign
odor
could
disturb
his
dreams
.
He
awoke
at
sunset
,
sniffed
in
all
directions
,
and
only
when
he
could
smell
that
the
last
farmer
had
left
his
fields
and
the
most
daring
wanderer
had
sought
shelter
from
the
descending
darkness
,
only
when
night
and
its
presumed
dangers
had
swept
the
countryside
clean
of
people
,
did
Grenouille
creep
out
of
hiding
and
set
out
again
on
his
journey
.
He
did
not
need
light
to
see
by
.
Even
before
,
when
he
was
traveling
by
day
,
he
had
often
closed
his
eyes
for
hours
on
end
and
merely
followed
his
nose
.
The
gaudy
landscape
,
the
dazzling
abrupt
definition
of
sight
hurt
his
eyes
.
He
was
delighted
only
by
moonlight
.
Moonlight
knew
no
colors
and
traced
the
contours
of
the
terrain
only
very
softly
.
It
covered
the
land
with
a
dirty
gray
,
strangling
life
all
night
long
.
This
world
molded
in
lead
,
where
nothing
moved
but
the
wind
that
fell
sometimes
like
a
shadow
over
the
gray
forests
,
and
where
nothing
lived
but
the
scent
of
the
naked
earth
,
was
the
only
world
that
he
accepted
,
for
it
was
much
like
the
world
of
his
soul.He
headed
south
.
Approximately
south-for
he
did
not
steer
by
magnetic
compass
,
but
only
by
the
compass
of
his
nose
,
which
sent
him
skirting
every
city
,
every
village
,
every
settlement
For
weeks
he
met
not
a
single
person
.
And
he
might
have
been
able
to
cradle
himself
in
the
soothing
belief
that
he
was
alone
in
a
world
bathed
in
darkness
or
the
cold
light
of
the
moon
,
had
his
delicate
compass
not
taught
him
better.Humans
existed
by
night
as
well
.
And
there
were
humans
in
the
most
remote
regions
.
They
had
only
pulled
back
like
rats
into
their
lairs
to
sleep
.
The
earth
was
not
cleansed
of
them
,
for
even
in
sleep
they
exuded
their
odor
,
which
then
forced
its
way
out
between
the
cracks
of
their
dwellings
and
into
the
open
air
,
poisoning
a
natural
world
only
apparently
left
to
its
own
devices
.
The
more
Grenouille
had
become
accustomed
to
purer
air
,
the
more
sensitive
he
was
to
human
odor
,
which
suddenly
,
quite
unexpectedly
,
would
come
floating
by
in
the
night
,
ghastly
as
the
stench
of
manure
,
betraying
the
presence
of
some
shepherd
's
hut
or
charcoal
burner
's
cottage
or
thieves
'
den
.
And
then
he
would
flee
farther
,
increasingly
sensitive
to
the
increasingly
infrequent
smell
of
humankind
.
Thus
his
nose
led
him
to
ever
more
remote
regions
of
the
country
,
ever
farther
from
human
beings
,
driving
him
on
ever
more
insistently
toward
the
magnetic
pole
of
the
greatest
possible
solitude
.
THAT
POLE
,
the
point
of
the
kingdom
most
distant
from
humankind
,
was
located
in
the
Massif
Central
of
the
Auvergne
,
about
five
days
'
journey
south
of
Clermont
,
on
the
peak
of
a
six-thousand-foot-high
volcano
named
Plomb
du
Cantal.The
mountain
consisted
of
a
giant
cone
of
blue-gray
rock
and
was
surrounded
by
an
endless
,
barren
highland
studded
with
a
few
trees
charred
by
fire
and
overgrown
with
gray
moss
and
gray
brush
,
out
of
which
here
and
there
brown
boulders
jutted
up
like
rotten
teeth
.
Even
by
light
of
day
,
the
region
was
so
dismal
and
dreary
that
the
poorest
shepherd
in
this
poverty-stricken
province
would
not
have
driven
his
animals
here
.
And
by
night
,
by
the
bleaching
light
of
the
moon
,
it
was
such
a
godforsaken
wilderness
that
it
seemed
not
of
this
world
.
Even
Lebrun
,
the
bandit
of
the
Auvergne
,
though
pursued
from
all
sides
,
had
preferred
to
fight
his
way
through
to
the
Cevennes
and
there
be
captured
,
drawn
,
and
quartered
rather
than
to
hide
out
on
the
Plomb
du
Cantal
,
where
certainly
no
one
would
have
sought
or
found
him
,
but
where
likewise
he
would
certainly
have
died
a
solitary
,
living
death
that
had
seemed
to
him
worse
still
.
For
miles
around
the
mountain
,
there
lived
not
one
human
being
,
nor
even
a
respectable
mammal-at
best
a
few
bats
and
a
couple
of
beetles
and
adders
.
No
one
had
scaled
the
peak
for
decades.Grenouille
reached
the
mountain
one
August
night
in
the
year
1756
.
As
dawn
broke
,
he
was
standing
on
the
peak
.
He
did
not
yet
know
that
his
journey
was
at
an
end
.
He
thought
that
this
was
only
a
stopping
place
on
the
way
to
ever
purer
air
,
and
he
turned
full
circle
and
let
his
nose
move
across
the
vast
panorama
of
the
volcanic
wilderness
:
to
the
east
,
where
the
broad
high
plain
of
Saint-Flour
and
the
marshes
of
the
Riou
River
lay
;
to
the
north
,
to
the
region
from
which
he
had
come
and
where
he
had
wandered
for
days
through
pitted
limestone
mountains
;
to
the
west
,
from
where
the
soft
wind
of
morning
brought
him
nothing
but
the
smells
of
stone
and
tough
grass
;
finally
to
the
south
,
where
the
foothills
of
the
Plomb
stretched
for
miles
to
the
dark
gorges
of
the
Truyere
.
Everywhere
,
in
every
direction
,
humanity
lay
equally
remote
from
him
,
and
a
step
in
any
direction
would
have
meant
closer
proximity
to
human
beings
.
The
compass
spun
about
.
It
no
longer
provided
orientation
.
Grenouille
was
at
his
goal
.
And
at
the
same
time
he
was
taken
captive.As
the
sun
rose
,
he
was
still
standing
on
the
same
spot
,
his
nose
held
up
to
the
air
.
With
a
desperate
effort
he
tried
to
get
a
whiff
of
the
direction
from
which
threatening
humanity
came
,
and
of
the
opposite
direction
to
which
he
could
flee
still
farther
.
He
assumed
that
in
whatever
direction
he
turned
he
ought
to
detect
some
latent
scrap
of
human
odor
.
But
there
was
nothing
.
Here
there
was
only
peace
,
olfactory
peace
,
if
it
can
be
put
that
way
.
Spread
all
about
,
as
if
softly
rustling
,
lay
nothing
but
the
drifting
,
homogeneous
odor
of
dead
stones
,
of
gray
lichen
,
and
of
withered
grasses-nothing
else.Grenouille
needed
a
very
long
time
to
believe
what
he
was
not
smelling
.
He
was
not
prepared
for
his
good
luck
His
mistrust
fought
against
his
good
sense
for
quite
a
while
.
He
even
used
his
eyes
to
aid
him
as
the
sun
rose
,
and
he
scanned
the
horizon
for
the
least
sign
of
human
presence
,
for
the
roof
of
a
hut
,
the
smoke
of
a
fire
,
a
fence
,
a
bridge
,
a
herd
.
He
held
his
hands
to
his
ears
and
listened
,
for
a
scythe
being
whetted
,
for
the
bark
of
a
dog
or
the
cry
of
a
child
.
That
whole
day
he
stood
fast
in
the
blazing
heat
on
the
peak
of
the
Plomb
du
Cantal
and
waited
in
vain
for
the
slightest
evidence
.
Only
as
the
sun
set
did
his
mistrust
gradually
fade
before
an
ever
increasing
sense
of
euphoria
.
He
had
escaped
the
abhorrent
taint
!
He
was
truly
completely
alone
!
He
was
the
only
human
being
in
the
world!He
erupted
with
thundering
jubilation
.
Like
a
shipwrecked
sailor
ecstatically
greeting
the
sight
of
an
inhabited
island
after
weeks
of
aimless
drifting
,
Grenouille
celebrated
his
arrival
at
the
mountain
of
solitude
.
He
shouted
for
joy
.
He
cast
aside
his
rucksack
,
blanket
,
walking
stick
,
and
stamped
his
feet
on
the
ground
,
threw
his
arms
to
the
sky
,
danced
in
circles
,
roared
his
own
name
to
the
four
winds
,
clenched
his
fists
,
shaking
them
triumphantly
at
the
great
,
wide
country
lying
below
him
and
at
the
setting
sun-triumphantly
,
as
if
he
personally
had
chased
it
from
the
sky
.
He
carried
on
like
a
madman
until
late
into
the
night
.
HE
SPENT
THE
next
few
days
settling
in
on
the
mountain-for
he
had
made
up
his
mind
that
he
would
not
be
leaving
this
blessed
region
all
that
soon
.
First
he
sniffed
around
for
water
and
in
a
crevasse
a
little
below
the
top
found
it
running
across
the
rock
in
a
thin
film
.
It
was
not
much
,
but
if
he
patiently
licked
at
it
for
an
hour
,
he
could
quench
his
daily
need
for
liquids
.
He
also
found
nourishment
in
the
form
of
small
salamanders
and
ring
snakes
;
he
pinched
off
their
heads
,
then
devoured
them
whole
.
He
also
ate
dry
lichen
and
grass
and
mossberries
.
Such
a
diet
,
although
totally
unacceptable
by
bourgeois
standards
,
did
not
disgust
him
in
the
least
.
In
the
past
weeks
and
months
he
had
no
longer
fed
himself
with
food
processed
by
human
hands-bread
,
sausage
,
cheese
-
but
instead
,
whenever
he
felt
hungry
,
had
wolfed
down
anything
vaguely
edible
that
had
crossed
his
path
.
He
was
anything
but
a
gourmet
.
He
had
no
use
for
sensual
gratification
,
unless
that
gratification
consisted
of
pure
,
incorporeal
odors
.
He
had
no
use
for
creature
comforts
either
and
would
have
been
quite
content
to
set
up
camp
on
bare
stone
.
But
he
found
something
better.Near
his
watering
spot
he
discovered
a
natural
tunnel
leading
back
into
the
mountain
by
many
twists
and
turns
,
until
after
a
hundred
feet
or
so
it
came
to
an
end
in
a
rock
slide
.
The
back
of
the
tunnel
was
so
narrow
that
Grenouille
's
shoulders
touched
the
rock
and
so
low
that
he
could
walk
only
hunched
down
.
But
he
could
sit
,
and
if
he
curled
up
,
could
even
lie
down
.
That
completely
satisfied
his
requirements
for
comfort
.
For
the
spot
had
incalculable
advantages
:
at
the
end
of
the
tunnel
it
was
pitch-black
night
even
during
the
day
,
it
was
deathly
quiet
,
and
the
air
he
breathed
was
moist
,
salty
,
cool
.
Grenouille
could
smell
at
once
that
no
living
creature
had
ever
entered
the
place
.
As
he
took
possession
of
it
,
he
was
overcome
by
a
sense
of
something
like
sacred
awe
.
He
carefully
spread
his
horse
blanket
on
the
ground
as
if
dressing
an
altar
and
lay
down
on
it
.
He
felt
blessedly
wonderful
.
He
was
lying
a
hundred
and
fifty
feet
below
the
earth
,
inside
the
loneliest
mountain
in
France-as
if
in
his
own
grave
.
Never
in
his
life
had
he
felt
so
secure
,
certainly
not
in
his
mother
's
belly
.
The
world
could
go
up
in
flames
out
there
,
but
he
would
not
even
notice
it
here
.
He
began
to
cry
softly
.
He
did
not
know
whom
to
thank
for
such
good
fortune.In
the
days
that
followed
he
went
into
the
open
only
to
lick
at
his
watering
spot
,
quickly
to
relieve
himself
of
his
urine
and
excrement
,
and
to
hunt
lizards
and
snakes
.
They
were
easy
to
bag
at
night
when
they
retreated
under
flat
stones
or
into
little
holes
where
he
could
trace
them
with
his
nose.He
climbed
back
up
to
the
peak
a
few
more
times
during
the
first
weeks
to
sniff
out
the
horizon
.
But
soon
that
had
become
more
a
wearisome
habit
than
a
necessity
,
for
he
had
not
once
scented
the
least
threat.And
so
he
finally
gave
up
these
excursions
and
was
concerned
only
with
getting
back
into
his
crypt
as
quickly
as
possible
once
he
had
taken
care
of
the
most
basic
chores
necessary
for
simple
survival
.
For
here
,
inside
the
crypt
,
was
where
he
truly
lived
Which
is
to
say
,
for
well
over
twenty
hours
a
day
in
total
darkness
and
in
total
silence
and
in
total
immobility
,
he
sat
on
his
horse
blanket
at
the
end
of
the
stony
corridor
,
his
back
resting
on
the
rock
slide
,
his
shoulders
wedged
between
the
rocks
,
and
enjoyed
himself.We
are
familiar
with
people
who
seek
out
solitude
:
penitents
,
failures
,
saints
,
or
prophets
.
They
retreat
to
deserts
,
preferably
,
where
they
live
on
locusts
and
honey
.
Others
,
however
,
live
in
caves
or
cells
on
remote
islands
;
some-more
spectacularly-squat
in
cages
mounted
high
atop
poles
swaying
in
the
breeze
.
They
do
this
to
be
nearer
to
God
.
Their
solitude
is
a
self-mortification
by
which
they
do
penance
.
They
act
in
the
belief
that
they
are
living
a
life
pleasing
to
God
.
Or
they
wait
months
,
years
,
for
their
solitude
to
be
broken
by
some
divine
message
that
they
hope
then
speedily
to
broadcast
among
mankind.Grenouille
's
case
was
nothing
of
the
sort
.
There
was
not
the
least
notion
of
God
in
his
head
.
He
was
not
doing
penance
nor
waiting
for
some
supernatural
inspiration
.
He
had
withdrawn
solely
for
his
own
personal
pleasure
,
only
to
be
near
to
himself
.
No
longer
distracted
by
anything
external
,
he
basked
in
his
own
existence
and
found
it
splendid
.
He
lay
in
his
stony
crypt
like
his
own
corpse
,
hardly
breathing
,
his
heart
hardly
beating-and
yet
lived
as
intensively
and
dissolutely
as
ever
a
rake
had
lived
in
the
wide
world
outside
.
THE
SETTING
FOR
these
debaucheries
was-how
could
it
be
otherwise-the
innermost
empire
where
he
had
buried
the
husks
of
every
odor
encountered
since
birth
.
To
enhance
the
mood
,
he
first
conjured
up
those
that
were
earliest
and
most
remote
:
the
hostile
,
steaming
vapors
of
Madame
Gaillard
's
bedroom
;
the
bone-dry
,
leathery
bouquet
of
her
hands
;
the
vinegary
breath
of
Father
Terrier
;
the
hysterical
,
hot
maternal
sweat
of
Bussie
the
wet
nurse
;
the
carrion
stench
of
the
Cimetiere
des
Innocents
;
the
homicidal
odor
of
his
mother
.
And
he
wallowed
in
disgust
and
loathing
,
and
his
hair
stood
on
end
at
the
delicious
horror.Sometimes
,
if
this
repulsive
aperitif
did
not
quite
get
him
into
stride
,
he
would
allow
himself
a
brief
,
odoriferous
detour
to
Grimal
's
for
a
whiff
of
the
stench
of
raw
,
meaty
skins
and
tanning
broths
,
or
he
imagined
the
collective
effluvium
of
six
hundred
thousand
Parisians
in
the
sultry
,
oppressive
heat
of
late
summer.And
then
all
at
once
,
the
pent-up
hate
would
erupt
with
orgasmic
force-that
was
,
after
all
,
the
point
of
the
exercise
.
Like
a
thunderstorm
he
rolled
across
these
odors
that
had
dared
offend
his
patrician
nose
.
He
thrashed
at
them
as
hail
thrashes
a
grainfield
;
like
a
hurricane
,
he
scattered
the
rabble
and
drowned
them
in
a
grand
purifying
deluge
of
distilled
water
.
And
how
just
was
his
anger
.
How
great
his
revenge
.
Ah
!
What
a
sublime
moment
!
Grenouille
,
the
little
man
,
quivered
with
excitement
,
his
body
writhed
with
voluptuous
delight
and
arched
so
high
that
he
slammed
his
head
against
the
roof
of
the
tunnel
,
only
to
sink
back
slowly
and
lie
there
lolling
in
satiation
.
It
really
was
too
pleasant
,
this
volcanic
act
that
extinguished
all
obnoxious
odors
,
really
too
pleasant
...
This
was
almost
his
favorite
routine
in
the
whole
repertoire
of
his
innermost
universal
theater
,
for
it
imparted
to
him
the
wonderful
sense
of
righteous
exhaustion
that
comes
after
only
truly
grand
heroic
deeds.Now
he
could
rest
awhile
in
good
conscience
.
He
stretched
out-to
the
extent
his
body
fit
within
the
narrow
stony
quarters
.
Deep
inside
,
however
,
on
the
cleanly
swept
mats
of
his
soul
,
he
stretched
out
comfortably
to
the
fullest
and
dozed
away
,
letting
delicate
scents
play
about
his
nose
:
a
spicy
gust
,
for
instance
,
as
if
borne
here
from
springtime
meadows
;
a
mild
May
wind
wafting
through
the
first
green
leaves
of
beech
;
a
sea
breeze
,
with
the
bitterness
of
salted
almonds
.
It
was
late
afternoon
when
he
arose
--
something
like
late
afternoon
,
for
naturally
there
was
no
afternoon
or
forenoon
or
evening
or
morning
,
there
was
neither
light
nor
darkness
,
nor
were
there
spring
meadows
nor
green
beech
leaves
...
there
were
no
real
things
at
all
in
Grenouille
's
innermost
universe
,
only
the
odors
of
things
.
(
Which
is
why
the
fafon
deparler
speaks
of
that
universe
as
a
landscape
;
an
adequate
expression
,
to
be
sure
,
but
the
only
possible
one
,
since
our
language
is
of
no
use
when
it
comes
to
describing
the
smellable
world
.
)
It
was
,
then
,
late
afternoon
:
that
is
,
a
condition
and
a
moment
within
Grenouille
's
soul
such
as
reigns
over
the
south
when
the
siesta
is
done
and
the
paralysis
of
midday
slowly
recedes
and
life
's
urge
begins
again
after
such
constraint
.
