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THE
CATASTROPHE
was
not
an
earthquake
,
nor
a
forest
fire
,
nor
an
avalanche
,
nor
a
cave-in
.
It
was
not
an
external
catastrophe
at
all
,
but
an
internal
one
,
and
as
such
particularly
distressing
,
because
it
blocked
Grenouille
's
favorite
means
of
escape
.
It
happened
in
his
sleep
.
Or
better
,
in
his
dreams
.
Or
better
still
,
in
a
dream
while
he
slept
in
the
heart
of
his
fantasies.He
lay
on
his
sofa
in
the
purple
salon
and
slept
,
the
empty
bottles
all
about
him
.
He
had
drunk
an
enormous
amount
,
with
two
whole
bottles
of
the
scent
of
the
red-haired
girl
for
a
nightcap
.
Apparently
it
had
been
too
much
;
for
his
sleep
,
though
deep
as
death
itself
,
was
not
dreamless
this
time
,
but
threaded
with
ghostly
wisps
of
dreams
.
These
wisps
were
clearly
recognizable
as
scraps
of
odors
.
At
first
they
merely
floated
in
thin
threads
past
Grenouille
's
nose
,
but
then
they
grew
thicker
,
more
cloudlike
.
And
now
it
seemed
as
if
he
were
standing
in
the
middle
of
a
moor
from
which
fog
was
rising
.
The
fog
slowly
climbed
higher
.
Soon
Grenouille
was
completely
wrapped
in
fog
,
saturated
with
fog
,
and
it
seemed
he
could
not
get
his
breath
for
the
foggy
vapor
.
If
he
did
not
want
to
suffocate
,
he
would
have
to
breathe
the
fog
in
.
And
the
fog
was
,
as
noted
,
an
odor
.
And
Grenouille
knew
what
kind
of
odor
.
The
fog
was
his
own
odor
.
His
,
Gre-nouille
's
,
own
body
odor
was
the
fog.And
the
awful
thing
was
that
Grenouille
,
although
he
knew
that
this
odor
was
his
odor
,
could
not
smell
it
.
Virtually
drowning
in
himself
,
he
could
not
for
the
life
of
him
smell
himself!As
this
became
clear
to
him
,
he
gave
a
scream
as
dreadful
and
loud
as
if
he
were
being
burned
alive
.
The
scream
smashed
through
the
walls
of
the
purple
salon
,
through
the
walls
of
the
castle
,
and
sped
away
from
his
heart
across
the
ditches
and
swamps
and
deserts
,
hurtled
across
the
nocturnal
landscape
of
his
soul
like
a
fire
storm
,
howled
its
way
out
of
his
mouth
,
down
the
winding
tunnel
,
out
into
the
world
,
and
far
across
the
high
plains
of
Saint-Flour-as
if
the
mountain
itself
were
screaming
.
And
Grenouille
awoke
at
his
own
scream
.
In
waking
,
he
thrashed
about
as
if
he
had
to
drive
off
the
odorless
fog
trying
to
suffocate
him
.
He
was
deathly
afraid
,
his
whole
body
shook
with
the
raw
fear
of
death
.
Had
his
scream
not
ripped
open
the
fog
,
he
would
have
drowned
in
himself-a
gruesome
death
.
He
shuddered
as
he
recalled
it
.
And
as
he
sat
there
shivering
and
trying
to
gather
his
confused
,
terrified
thoughts
,
he
knew
one
thing
for
sure
:
he
would
change
his
life
,
if
only
because
he
did
not
want
to
dream
such
a
frightening
dream
a
second
time
.
He
would
not
survive
it
a
second
time.He
threw
his
horse
blanket
over
his
shoulders
and
crept
out
into
the
open
.
It
was
already
morning
outside
,
a
late
February
morning
.
The
sun
was
shining
.
The
earth
smelled
of
moist
stones
,
moss
,
and
water
.
On
the
wind
there
already
lay
a
light
bouquet
of
anemones
.
He
squatted
on
the
ground
before
his
cave
.
The
sunlight
warmed
him
.
He
breathed
in
the
fresh
air
.
Whenever
he
thought
of
the
fog
that
he
had
escaped
,
a
shudder
would
pass
over
him
.
And
he
shuddered
,
too
,
from
the
pleasure
of
the
warmth
he
feit
on
his
back
.
It
was
good
,
really
,
that
this
external
world
still
existed
,
if
only
as
a
place
of
refuge
.
Nor
could
he
bear
the
awful
thought
of
how
it
would
have
been
not
to
find
a
world
at
the
entrance
to
the
tunnel
!
No
light
,
no
odor
,
no
nothing-only
that
ghastly
fog
inside
,
outside
,
everywhere
...
Gradually
the
shock
subsided
.
Gradually
the
grip
of
anxiety
loosened
,
and
Grenouille
began
to
feel
safer
.
Toward
noon
he
was
his
old
cold-blooded
self
.
He
laid
the
index
and
middle
fingers
of
his
left
hand
under
his
nose
and
breathed
along
the
backs
of
his
fingers
.
He
smelled
the
moist
spring
air
spiced
with
anemones
.
He
did
not
smell
anything
of
his
fingers
.
He
turned
his
hand
over
and
sniffed
at
the
palm
.
He
sensed
the
warmth
of
his
hand
,
but
smelled
nothing
.
Then
he
rolled
up
the
ragged
sleeve
of
his
shirt
,
buried
his
nose
in
the
crook
of
his
elbow
.
He
knew
that
this
was
the
spot
where
all
humans
smell
like
themselves
.
But
he
could
smell
nothing
.
He
could
not
smell
anything
in
his
armpits
,
nor
on
his
feet
,
not
around
his
genitals
when
he
bent
down
to
them
as
far
as
he
possibly
could
.
It
was
grotesque
:
he
,
Grenouille
,
who
could
smell
other
people
miles
away
,
was
incapable
of
smelling
his
own
genitals
not
a
handspan
away
!
Nevertheless
,
he
did
not
panic
,
but
considered
it
all
coolly
and
spoke
to
himself
as
follows
:
"
It
is
not
that
I
do
not
smell
,
for
everything
smells
.
It
is
,
rather
,
that
I
can
not
smell
that
I
smell
,
because
I
have
smelled
myself
day
in
day
out
since
my
birth
,
and
my
nose
is
therefore
dulled
against
my
own
smell
.
If
I
could
separate
my
own
smell
,
or
at
least
a
part
of
it
,
from
me
and
then
return
to
it
after
being
weaned
from
it
for
a
while
,
then
I
would
most
certainly
be
able
to
smell
it-and
therefore
me
.
"
He
laid
the
horse
blanket
aside
and
took
off
his
clothes
,
or
at
least
what
remained
of
them-rags
and
tatters
were
what
he
took
off
.
For
seven
years
he
had
not
removed
them
from
his
body
.
They
had
to
be
fully
saturated
with
his
own
odor
.
He
tossed
them
into
a
pile
at
the
cave
entrance
and
walked
away
.
Then
,
for
the
first
time
in
seven
years
,
he
once
again
climbed
to
the
top
of
the
mountain
.
There
he
stood
on
the
same
spot
where
he
had
stood
on
the
day
of
his
arrival
,
held
his
nose
to
the
west
,
and
let
the
wind
whistle
around
his
naked
body
.
His
intention
was
thoroughly
to
air
himself
,
to
be
pumped
so
full
of
the
west
wind-and
that
meant
with
the
odor
of
the
sea
and
wet
meadows
-
that
this
odor
would
counterbalance
his
own
body
odor
,
creating
a
gradient
of
odors
between
himself
and
his
clothes
,
which
he
would
then
be
in
a
position
to
smell
.
And
to
prevent
his
nose
from
taking
in
the
least
bit
of
his
own
odor
,
he
bent
his
body
forward
,
stretching
his
neck
out
as
far
as
he
could
against
the
wind
,
with
his
arms
stretched
behind
him
.
He
looked
like
a
swimmer
just
before
he
dives
into
the
water.He
held
this
totally
ridiculous
pose
for
several
hours
,
and
even
by
such
pale
sunlight
,
his
skin
,
maggot
white
from
lack
of
sun
,
was
turned
a
lobster
red
.
Toward
evening
he
climbed
back
down
to
the
cave
.
From
far
off
he
could
see
his
clothes
lying
in
a
pile
.
The
last
few
yards
,
he
held
his
nose
closed
and
opened
it
again
only
when
he
had
lowered
it
right
down
onto
the
pile
.
He
made
the
sniffing
test
he
had
learned
from
Baldini
,
snatching
up
the
air
and
then
letting
it
out
again
in
spurts
.
And
to
catch
the
odor
,
he
used
both
hands
to
form
a
bell
around
his
clothes
,
with
his
nose
stuck
into
it
as
the
clapper
.
He
did
everything
possible
to
extract
his
own
odor
from
his
clothes
.
But
there
was
no
odor
in
them
.
It
was
most
definitely
not
there
.
There
were
a
thousand
other
odors
:
the
odor
of
stone
,
sand
,
moss
,
resin
,
raven
's
blood-even
the
odor
of
the
sausage
that
he
had
bought
years
before
near
Sully
was
clearly
perceptible
.
Those
clothes
contained
an
olfactory
diary
of
the
last
seven
,
eight
years
.
Only
one
odor
was
not
there-his
own
odor
,
the
odor
of
the
person
who
had
worn
them
continuously
all
that
time.And
now
he
began
to
be
truly
alarmed
.
The
sun
had
set
.
He
was
standing
naked
at
the
entrance
to
the
tunnel
,
where
he
had
lived
in
darkness
for
seven
years
.
The
wind
blew
cold
,
and
he
was
freezing
,
but
he
did
not
notice
that
he
was
freezing
,
for
within
him
was
a
counterfrost
,
fear
.
It
was
not
the
same
fear
that
he
had
felt
in
his
dream-the
ghastly
fear
of
suffocating
on
himself-which
he
had
had
to
shake
off
and
flee
whatever
the
cost
.
What
he
now
felt
was
the
fear
of
not
knowing
much
of
anything
about
himself
.
It
was
the
opposite
pole
of
that
other
fear
.
He
could
not
flee
it
,
but
had
to
move
toward
it
.
He
had
to
know
for
certain-even
if
that
knowledge
proved
too
terrible
--
whether
he
had
an
odor
or
not
.
And
he
had
to
know
now
.
At
once.He
went
back
into
the
tunnel
.
Within
a
few
yards
he
was
fully
engulfed
in
darkness
,
but
he
found
his
way
as
if
by
brightest
daylight
.
He
had
gone
down
this
path
many
thousands
of
times
,
knew
every
step
and
every
turn
,
couid
smell
every
low-hanging
jut
of
rock
and
every
tiny
protruding
stone
.
It
was
not
hard
to
find
the
way
.
What
was
hard
was
fighting
back
the
memory
of
the
claustrophobic
dream
rising
higher
and
higher
within
him
like
a
flood
tide
with
every
step
he
took
.
But
he
was
brave
.
That
is
to
say
,
he
fought
the
fear
of
knowing
with
the
fear
of
not
knowing
,
and
he
won
the
battle
,
because
he
knew
he
had
no
choice
.
When
he
had
reached
the
end
of
the
tunnel
,
there
where
the
rock
slide
slanted
upwards
,
both
fears
fell
away
from
him
.
He
felt
calm
,
his
mind
was
quite
clear
and
his
nose
sharp
as
a
scalpel
.
He
squatted
down
,
laid
his
hands
over
his
eyes
,
and
smelled
.
Here
on
this
spot
,
in
this
remote
stony
grave
,
he
had
lain
for
seven
years
.
There
must
be
some
smell
of
him
here
,
if
anywhere
in
this
world
.
He
breathed
slowly
.
He
analyzed
exactly
.
He
allowed
himself
time
to
come
to
a
judgment
.
He
squatted
there
for
a
quarter
of
an
hour
.
His
memory
was
infallible
,
and
he
knew
precisely
how
this
spot
had
smelled
seven
years
before
:
stony
and
moist
,
salty
,
cool
,
and
so
pure
that
no
living
creature
,
man
or
beast
,
could
ever
have
entered
the
place
...
which
was
exactly
how
it
smelled
now.He
continued
to
squat
there
for
a
while
,
quite
calm
,
simply
nodding
his
head
gently
.
Then
he
turned
around
and
walked
,
at
first
hunched
down
,
but
when
the
height
of
the
tunnel
allowed
it
,
erect
,
out
into
the
open
air
Outside
he
pulled
on
his
rags
(
his
shoes
had
rotted
off
him
years
before
)
,
threw
the
horse
blanket
over
his
shoulders
,
and
that
same
night
left
the
Plomb
du
Cantal
,
heading
south
.
HE
LOOKED
AWFUL
.
His
hair
reached
down
to
the
hollows
of
his
knees
,
his
scraggly
beard
to
his
navel
.
His
nails
were
like
talons
,
and
the
skin
on
his
arms
and
legs
,
where
the
rags
no
longer
covered
his
body
,
was
peeling
off
in
shreds.The
first
people
he
met
,
farmers
in
a
field
near
the
town
of
Pierrefort
,
ran
off
screaming
at
the
sight
of
him
.
But
in
the
town
itself
,
he
caused
a
sensation
.
By
the
hundreds
people
came
running
to
gape
at
him
.
Many
of
them
believed
he
was
an
escaped
galley
slave
.
Others
said
he
was
not
really
a
human
being
,
but
some
mixture
of
man
and
bear
,
some
kind
of
forest
creature
.
One
fellow
,
who
had
been
to
sea
,
claimed
that
he
looked
like
a
member
of
a
wild
Indian
tribe
in
Cayenne
,
which
lay
on
the
other
side
of
the
great
ocean
.
They
led
him
before
the
mayor
.
There
,
to
the
astonishment
of
the
assembly
,
he
produced
his
journeyman
's
papers
,
opened
his
mouth
,
and
related
in
a
few
gabbled
but
sufficiently
comprehensible
words
--
for
these
were
the
first
words
that
he
had
uttered
in
seven
years-how
he
had
been
attacked
by
robbers
,
dragged
off
,
and
held
captive
in
a
cave
for
seven
years.He
had
seen
neither
daylight
nor
another
human
being
during
that
time
,
had
been
fed
by
an
invisible
hand
that
let
down
a
basket
in
the
dark
,
and
finally
set
free
by
a
ladder-without
his
ever
knowing
why
and
without
ever
having
seen
his
captors
or
his
rescuer
.
He
had
thought
this
story
up
,
since
it
seemed
to
him
more
believable
than
the
truth
;
and
so
it
was
,
for
similar
attacks
by
robbers
occurred
not
infrequently
in
the
mountains
of
the
Auvergne
and
Languedoc
,
and
in
the
Cevennes
.
At
least
the
mayor
recorded
it
all
without
protest
and
passed
his
report
on
to
the
marquis
de
La
Taillade-Espinasse
,
liege
lord
of
the
town
and
member
of
parliament
in
Toulouse.At
the
age
of
forty
,
the
marquis
had
turned
his
back
on
life
at
the
court
of
Versailles
and
retired
to
his
estates
,
where
he
lived
for
science
alone
.
From
his
pen
had
come
an
important
work
concerning
dynamic
political
economy
.
In
it
he
had
proposed
the
abolition
of
all
taxes
on
real
estate
and
agricultural
products
,
as
well
as
the
introduction
of
an
upside-down
progressive
income
tax
,
which
would
hit
the
poorest
citizens
the
hardest
and
so
force
them
to
a
more
vigorous
development
of
their
economic
activities
.
Encouraged
by
the
success
of
his
little
book
,
he
authored
a
tract
on
the
raising
of
boys
and
girls
between
the
ages
of
five
and
ten
.
Then
he
turned
to
experimental
agriculture
.
By
spreading
the
semen
of
bulls
over
various
grasses
,
he
attempted
to
produce
a
milk-yielding
animal-vegetable
hybrid
,
a
sort
of
udder
flower
.
After
initial
successes
that
enabled
him
to
produce
a
cheese
from
his
milk
grass-described
by
the
Academy
of
Sciences
of
Lyon
as
"
tasting
of
goat
,
though
slightly
bitter
"
--
he
had
to
abandon
his
experiments
because
of
the
enormous
cost
of
spewing
bull
semen
by
the
hundreds
of
quarts
across
his
fields
.
In
any
case
,
his
concern
with
matters
agro-biological
had
awakened
his
interest
not
only
in
the
plowed
clod
,
so
to
speak
,
but
in
the
earth
in
general
and
its
relationship
to
the
biosphere
in
particular
.
He
had
barely
concluded
his
work
with
the
milk-yielding
udder
flower
when
he
threw
himself
with
great
elan
into
unflagging
research
for
a
grand
treatise
on
the
relationship
between
proximity
to
the
earth
and
vital
energy
.
His
thesis
was
that
life
could
develop
only
at
a
certain
distance
from
the
earth
,
since
the
earth
itself
constantly
emits
a
corrupting
gas
,
a
so-called
fluidum
letale
,
which
lames
vital
energies
and
sooner
or
later
totally
extinguishes
them
.
All
living
creatures
therefore
endeavor
to
distance
themselves
from
the
earth
by
growing-that
is
,
they
grow
away
from
it
and
not
,
for
instance
,
into
it
;
which
is
why
their
most
valuable
parts
are
lifted
heavenwards
:
the
ears
of
grain
,
the
blossoms
of
flowers
,
the
head
of
man
;
and
therefore
,
as
they
begin
to
bend
and
buckle
back
toward
the
earth
in
old
age
,
they
will
inevitably
fall
victim
to
the
lethal
gas
,
into
which
they
are
in
turn
finally
changed
once
they
have
decomposed
after
death.When
the
marquis
de
La
Taillade-Espinasse
received
word
that
in
Pierrefort
an
individual
had
been
found
who
had
dwelt
in
a
cave
for
seven
years-that
is
,
completely
encapsulated
by
the
corrupting
element
of
the
earth-he
was
beside
himself
with
delight
and
immediately
had
Grenouille
brought
to
his
laboratory
,
where
he
subjected
him
to
a
thorough
examination
.
He
found
his
theories
confirmed
most
graphically
:
the
fluidum
letale
had
already
so
assaulted
Grenouille
that
his
twenty-five-year-old
body
clearly
showed
the
marks
of
senile
deterioration
.
