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WHEREAS
GRENOUILLE
had
needed
seven
years
for
the
first
stage
of
his
journey
through
France
,
he
put
the
second
behind
him
in
less
than
seven
days
.
He
no
longer
avoided
busy
roads
and
cities
,
he
made
no
detours
.
He
had
an
odor
,
he
had
money
,
he
had
self-confidence
,
and
he
had
no
time
to
lose.By
evening
of
the
day
he
left
Montpellier
,
he
had
arrived
at
Le
Grau-du-Roi
,
a
small
harbor
town
southwest
of
Aigues-Mortes
,
where
he
boarded
a
merchant
ship
for
Marseille
.
In
Marseille
he
did
not
even
leave
the
harbor
,
but
immediately
sought
out
a
ship
that
brought
him
farther
along
the
coast
to
the
east
.
Two
days
later
he
was
in
Toulon
,
in
three
more
in
Cannes
.
The
rest
of
the
way
he
traveled
on
foot
.
He
followed
a
back
road
that
led
up
into
the
hills
,
northward
into
the
interior.Two
hours
later
he
was
standing
on
a
rise
and
before
him
was
spread
a
valley
several
miles
wide
,
a
kind
of
basin
in
the
landscape-its
surrounding
rim
made
up
of
gently
rising
hills
and
a
ridge
of
steep
mountains
,
its
broad
bowl
covered
with
fields
,
gardens
,
and
olive
groves
.
The
basin
had
its
own
special
,
intimate
climate
.
Although
the
sea
was
so
near
that
one
could
see
it
from
the
tops
of
the
hills
,
there
was
nothing
maritime
,
nothing
salty
and
sandy
,
nothing
expansive
about
this
climate
;
instead
,
it
possessed
a
secluded
tranquillity
as
if
you
were
many
days
'
journey
distant
from
the
coast
.
And
although
to
the
north
the
high
mountains
were
covered
with
snow
that
would
remain
for
a
good
while
yet
,
it
was
not
in
the
least
raw
or
barren
and
no
cold
wind
blew
.
Spring
was
further
advanced
than
in
Montpellier
.
A
mild
haze
lay
like
a
glass
bell
over
the
fields
.
Apricot
and
almond
trees
were
in
bloom
,
and
the
warm
air
was
infused
with
the
scent
of
jonquils.At
the
other
end
of
the
wide
basin
,
perhaps
two
miles
off
,
a
town
lay
among-or
better
,
clung
to-the
rising
mountains
.
From
a
distance
it
did
not
make
a
particularly
grand
impression
.
There
was
no
mighty
cathedral
towering
above
the
houses
,
just
a
little
stump
of
a
church
steeple
,
no
commanding
fortress
,
no
magnificent
edifice
of
note
.
The
walls
appeared
anything
but
defiant-here
and
there
the
houses
spilled
out
from
their
limits
,
especially
in
the
direction
of
the
plain
,
lending
the
outskirts
a
somewhat
disheveled
look
.
It
was
as
if
the
place
had
been
overrun
and
then
retaken
so
often
that
it
was
weary
of
offering
serious
resistance
to
any
future
intruders
--
not
out
of
weakness
,
but
out
of
indolence
,
or
maybe
even
out
of
a
sense
of
its
own
strength
.
It
looked
as
if
it
had
no
need
to
flaunt
itself
.
It
reigned
above
the
fragrant
basin
at
its
feet
,
and
that
seemed
to
suffice.This
equally
homely
and
self-confident
place
was
the
town
of
Grasse
,
for
decades
now
the
uncontested
center
for
production
of
and
commerce
in
scents
,
perfumes
,
soaps
,
and
oils
.
Giuseppe
Baldini
had
always
uttered
the
name
with
enraptured
delight
.
The
town
was
the
Rome
of
scents
,
the
promised
land
of
perfumes
,
and
the
man
who
had
not
earned
his
spurs
here
did
not
rightfully
bear
the
title
of
perfumer.Grenouille
gazed
very
coolly
at
the
town
of
Grasse
.
He
was
not
seeking
the
promised
land
of
perfumers
,
and
his
heart
did
not
leap
at
the
sight
of
this
small
town
clinging
to
the
far
slopes
.
He
had
come
because
he
knew
that
he
could
learn
about
several
techniques
for
production
of
scent
there
better
than
elsewhere
.
And
he
wanted
to
acquire
them
,
for
he
needed
them
for
his
own
purposes
.
He
pulled
the
flacon
with
his
perfume
from
his
pocket
,
dabbed
himself
lightly
,
and
continued
on
his
way
.
An
hour
and
a
half
later
,
around
noon
,
he
was
in
Grasse.He
ate
at
an
inn
near
the
top
of
the
town
,
on
the
place
aux
Aires
,
The
square
was
divided
lengthwise
by
a
brook
where
tanners
washed
their
hides
and
afterwards
spread
them
out
to
dry
.
The
odor
was
so
pungent
that
many
a
guest
lost
his
appetite
for
his
meal
.
But
not
Grenouille
.
It
was
a
familiar
odor
to
him
;
it
gave
him
a
sense
of
security
.
In
every
city
he
always
sought
out
the
tanning
district
first
.
And
then
,
emerging
from
that
region
of
stench
to
explore
the
other
parts
of
the
place
,
he
no
longer
felt
a
stranger.He
spent
all
that
afternoon
wandering
about
the
town
.
It
was
unbelievably
filthy
,
despite-or
perhaps
directly
because
of-all
the
water
that
gushed
from
springs
and
wells
,
gurgling
down
through
the
town
in
unchanneled
rivulets
and
brooks
,
undermining
the
streets
or
flooding
them
with
muck
.
In
some
neighborhoods
the
houses
stood
so
close
together
that
only
a
yard-wide
space
was
left
for
passageways
and
stairs
,
forcing
pedestrians
to
jostle
one
another
as
they
waded
through
the
mire
.
And
even
in
the
squares
and
along
the
few
broader
streets
,
vehicles
could
hardly
get
out
of
each
other
's
way.Nevertheless
,
however
filthy
,
cramped
,
and
slovenly
,
the
town
was
bursting
with
the
bustle
of
commerce
.
During
his
tour
,
Grenouille
spotted
no
less
than
seven
soapworks
,
a
dozen
master
perfumers
and
glovers
,
countless
small
distilleries
,
pomade
studios
,
and
spice
shops
,
and
finally
some
seven
wholesalers
in
scents.These
were
in
fact
merchants
who
completely
controlled
the
wholesale
supply
of
scent
.
One
would
hardly
know
it
by
their
houses
.
The
facades
to
the
street
looked
modestly
middle
class
.
But
what
was
stored
behind
them
,
in
warehouses
and
in
gigantic
cellars
,
in
kegs
of
oil
,
in
stacks
of
finest
lavender
soaps
,
in
demijohns
of
floral
colognes
,
wines
,
alcohols
,
in
bales
of
scented
leather
,
in
sacks
and
chests
and
crates
stuffed
with
spices-GrenouilSe
smelled
out
every
detail
through
the
thickest
walls-these
were
riches
beyond
those
of
princes
.
And
when
he
smelled
his
way
more
penetratingly
through
the
prosaic
shops
and
storerooms
fronting
the
streets
,
he
discovered
that
at
the
rear
of
these
provincial
family
homes
were
buildings
of
the
most
luxurious
sort
.
Around
small
but
exquisite
gardens
,
where
oleander
and
palm
trees
flourished
and
fountains
bordered
by
ornamental
flowers
leapt
,
extended
the
actual
residential
wings
,
usually
built
in
a
U-shape
toward
the
south
:
on
the
upper
floors
,
bedchambers
drenched
in
sunlight
,
the
walls
covered
with
silk
;
on
the
ground
floor
wainscoted
salons
and
dining
rooms
,
sometimes
with
terraces
built
out
into
the
open
air
,
where
,
just
as
Baldini
had
said
,
people
ate
from
porcelain
with
golden
cutlery
.
The
gentlemen
who
lived
behind
these
modest
sham
facades
reeked
of
gold
and
power
,
of
carefully
secured
riches
,
and
they
reeked
of
it
more
strongly
than
anything
Grenouille
had
smelled
thus
far
on
his
journey
through
the
provinces.He
stopped
and
stood
for
a
good
while
in
front
of
one
of
these
camouflaged
palazzi
.
The
house
was
at
the
beginning
of
the
rue
Droite
,
a
main
artery
that
traversed
the
whole
length
of
the
city
,
from
west
to
east
.
It
was
nothing
extraordinary
to
look
at
,
perhaps
the
front
was
a
little
wider
and
ampler
than
its
neighbors
'
,
but
certainly
not
imposing
.
At
the
gateway
stood
a
wagon
from
which
kegs
were
being
unloaded
down
a
ramp
.
A
second
vehicle
stood
waiting
.
A
man
with
some
papers
went
into
the
office
,
came
back
out
with
another
man
,
both
of
them
disappeared
through
the
gateway
.
Grenouille
stood
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
street
and
watched
the
comings
and
goings
.
He
was
not
interested
in
what
was
happening
.
And
yet
he
stood
there
.
Something
else
was
holding
him
fast.He
closed
his
eyes
and
concentrated
on
the
odors
that
came
floating
to
him
from
the
building
across
the
way
.
There
were
the
odors
of
the
kegs
,
vinegar
and
wine
,
then
the
hundredfold
heavy
odors
of
the
warehouse
,
then
the
odors
of
wealth
that
the
walls
exuded
like
a
fine
golden
sweat
,
and
finally
the
odors
of
a
garden
that
had
to
lie
on
the
far
side
of
the
building
.
It
was
not
easy
to
catch
the
delicate
scents
of
the
garden
,
for
they
came
only
in
thin
ribbons
from
over
the
house
's
gables
and
down
into
the
street
.
Grenouille
discerned
magnolia
,
hyacinth
,
daphne
,
and
rhododendron
...
but
there
seemed
to
be
something
else
besides
,
something
in
the
garden
that
gave
off
a
fatally
wonderful
scent
,
a
scent
so
exquisite
that
in
all
his
life
his
nose
had
never
before
encountered
one
like
it-or
,
indeed
,
only
once
before
...
He
had
to
get
closer
to
that
scent.He
considered
whether
he
ought
simply
to
force
his
way
through
the
gate
and
onto
the
premises
.
But
meanwhile
so
many
people
had
become
involved
in
unloading
and
inventorying
the
kegs
that
he
was
sure
to
be
noticed
.
He
decided
to
walk
back
down
the
street
and
find
an
alley
or
passageway
that
would
perhaps
lead
him
along
the
far
side
of
the
house
.
Within
a
few
yards
he
had
reached
the
town
gate
at
the
start
of
the
rue
Droite
.
He
walked
through
it
,
took
a
sharp
left
,
and
followed
the
town
wall
downhill
.
He
had
not
gone
far
before
he
smelled
the
garden
,
faintly
at
first
,
blended
with
the
air
from
the
fields
,
but
then
ever
more
strongly
.
Finally
he
knew
that
he
was
very
close
.
The
garden
bordered
on
the
town
wall
.
It
was
directly
beside
him
.
If
he
moved
back
a
bit
,
he
could
see
the
top
branches
of
the
orange
trees
just
over
the
wall.Again
he
closed
his
eyes
.
The
scents
of
the
garden
descended
upon
him
,
their
contours
as
precise
and
clear
as
the
colored
bands
of
a
rainbow
.
And
that
one
,
that
precious
one
,
that
one
that
mattered
above
all
else
,
was
among
them
.
Grenouille
turned
hot
with
rapture
and
cold
with
fear
.
Blood
rushed
to
his
head
as
if
he
were
a
little
boy
caught
red-handed
,
and
then
it
retreated
to
his
solar
plexus
,
and
then
rushed
up
again
and
retreated
again
,
and
he
could
do
nothing
to
stop
it
.
This
attack
of
scent
had
come
on
too
suddenly
.
For
a
moment
,
for
a
breath
,
for
an
eternity
it
seemed
to
him
,
time
was
doubled
or
had
disappeared
completely
,
for
he
no
longer
knew
whether
now
was
now
and
here
was
here
,
or
whether
now
was
not
in
fact
then
and
here
there-that
is
,
the
rue
des
Marais
in
Paris
,
September
1753
.
The
scent
floating
out
of
the
garden
was
the
scent
of
the
redheaded
girl
he
had
murdered
that
night
.
To
have
found
that
scent
in
this
world
once
again
brought
tears
of
bliss
to
his
eyes
--
and
to
know
that
it
could
not
possibly
be
true
frightened
him
to
death.He
was
dizzy
,
he
tottered
a
little
and
had
to
support
himself
against
the
wall
,
sinking
slowly
down
against
it
in
a
crouch
.
Collecting
himself
and
gaining
control
of
his
senses
,
he
began
to
inhale
the
fatal
scent
in
short
,
less
dangerous
breaths
.
And
he
established
that
,
while
the
scent
from
behind
the
wall
bore
an
extreme
resemblance
to
the
scent
of
the
redheaded
girl
,
it
was
not
completely
the
same
.
To
be
sure
,
it
also
came
from
a
redheaded
girl
,
there
was
no
doubt
of
that
.
In
his
olfactory
imagination
,
Grenouille
saw
this
girl
as
if
in
a
picture
:
she
was
not
sitting
still
,
she
was
jumping
about
,
warming
up
and
then
cooling
off
,
apparently
playing
some
game
in
which
she
had
to
move
quickly
and
then
just
as
quickly
stand
still-with
a
second
person
,
by
the
way
,
someone
with
a
totally
insignificant
odor
.
She
had
dazzlingly
white
skin
.
She
had
green
eyes
.
She
had
freckles
on
her
face
,
neck
,
and
breasts
...
that
is-and
Grenouille
's
breath
stopped
for
a
moment
,
then
he
sniffed
more
vigorously
and
tried
to
suppress
the
memory
of
the
scent
of
the
girl
from
the
rue
des
Marais-that
is
,
this
girl
did
not
even
have
breasts
in
the
true
sense
of
the
word
!
She
barely
had
the
rudimentary
start
of
breasts
.
Infinitely
tender
and
with
hardly
any
fragrance
,
sprinkled
with
freckles
,
just
beginning
to
expand
,
perhaps
only
in
the
last
few
days
,
perhaps
in
the
last
few
hours
,
perhaps
only
just
at
this
moment-such
were
the
little
cupped
breasts
of
this
girl
.
In
a
word
:
the
girl
was
still
a
child
.
But
what
a
child!The
sweat
stood
out
on
Grenouille
's
forehead
.
He
knew
that
children
did
not
have
an
exceptional
scent
,
any
more
than
green
buds
of
flowers
before
they
blossom
.
This
child
behind
the
wall
,
however
,
this
bud
still
almost
closed
tight
,
which
only
just
now
was
sending
out
its
first
fragrant
tips
,
unnoticed
by
anyone
except
by
him
,
Grenouille-this
child
already
had
a
scent
so
terrifyingly
celestial
that
once
it
had
unfolded
its
total
glory
,
it
would
unleash
a
perfume
such
as
the
world
had
never
smelled
before
.
She
already
smells
better
now
,
Grenouille
thought
,
than
that
girl
did
back
then
in
the
rue
des
Marais-not
as
robust
,
not
as
voluminous
,
but
more
refined
,
more
richly
nuanced
,
and
at
the
same
time
more
natural
.
In
a
year
or
two
this
scent
will
be
ripened
and
take
on
a
gravity
that
no
one
,
man
or
woman
,
will
be
able
to
escape
.
People
will
be
overwhelmed
,
disarmed
,
helpless
before
the
magic
of
this
girl
,
and
they
will
not
know
why
.
And
because
people
are
stupid
and
use
their
noses
only
for
blowing
,
but
believe
absolutely
anything
they
see
with
their
eyes
,
they
will
say
it
is
because
this
is
a
girl
with
beauty
and
grace
and
charm
.
In
their
obtuseness
,
they
will
praise
the
evenness
of
her
features
,
her
slender
figure
,
her
faultless
breasts
.
And
her
eyes
,
they
will
say
,
are
like
emeralds
and
her
teeth
like
pearls
and
her
limbs
smooth
as
ivory-and
all
those
other
idiotic
comparisons
.
And
they
will
elect
her
Queen
of
the
Jasmine
,
and
she
will
be
painted
by
stupid
portraitists
,
her
picture
will
be
ogled
,
and
people
will
say
that
she
is
the
most
beautiful
woman
in
France
.
And
to
the
strains
of
mandolins
,
youths
will
howl
the
nights
away
sitting
beneath
her
window
...
rich
,
fat
old
men
will
skid
about
on
their
knees
begging
her
father
for
her
hand
...
and
women
of
every
age
will
sigh
at
the
sight
of
her
and
in
their
sleep
dream
of
looking
as
alluring
as
she
for
just
one
day
.
And
none
of
them
will
know
that
it
is
truly
not
how
she
looks
that
has
captured
them
,
not
her
reputed
unblemished
external
beauty
,
but
solely
her
incomparable
,
splendid
scent
!
Only
he
would
know
that
,
only
Grenouille
,
he
alone
.
He
knew
it
already
in
fact.Ah
!
He
wanted
to
have
that
scent
!
Not
in
the
useless
,
clumsy
fashion
by
which
he
had
had
the
scent
of
the
girl
in
the
rue
des
Marais
.
For
he
had
merely
sucked
that
into
himself
and
destroyed
it
in
the
process
.
No
,
he
wanted
truly
to
possess
the
scent
of
this
girl
behind
the
wall
;
to
peel
it
from
her
like
skin
and
to
make
her
scent
his
own
.
How
that
was
to
be
done
,
he
did
not
know
yet
.
But
he
had
two
years
in
which
to
learn
Ultimately
it
ought
to
be
no
more
difficult
than
robbing
a
rare
flower
of
its
perfume.He
stood
up
,
almost
reverently
,
as
if
leaving
behind
something
sacred
or
someone
in
deep
sleep
.
He
moved
on
,
softly
,
hunched
over
,
so
that
no
one
might
see
him
,
no
one
might
hear
him
,
no
one
might
be
made
aware
of
his
precious
discovery
.
And
so
he
fled
along
the
wall
to
the
opposite
end
of
the
town
,
where
he
finally
lost
the
girl
's
scent
and
reentered
by
way
of
the
Porte
des
Feneants
.
He
stood
in
the
shadow
of
the
buildings
.
The
stinking
vapors
of
the
streets
made
him
feel
secure
and
helped
him
to
tame
the
passions
that
had
overcome
him
.
Within
fifteen
minutes
he
had
grown
perfectly
calm
again
.
To
start
with
,
he
thought
,
he
would
not
again
approach
the
vicinity
of
the
garden
behind
the
wall
.
That
was
not
necessary
.
It
excited
him
too
much
.
The
flower
would
flourish
there
without
his
aid
,
and
he
knew
already
in
what
manner
it
would
flourish
.
He
dared
not
intoxicate
himself
with
that
scent
prematurely
.
He
had
to
throw
himself
into
his
work
.
He
had
to
broaden
his
knowledge
and
perfect
the
techniques
of
his
craft
in
order
to
be
equipped
for
the
time
of
harvest
.
He
had
a
good
two
years
.
