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The
result
was
eerie
:
right
under
Grenouille
's
nose
,
the
sackmaker
rose
olfactonly
from
the
dead
,
ascending
from
the
alcohol
solution
,
hovering
there-the
phantom
slightly
distorted
by
the
peculiar
methods
of
reproduction
and
the
countless
miasmas
of
his
disease-but
perfectly
recognizable
in
space
as
an
olfactory
personage
.
A
small
man
of
about
thirty
,
blond
,
with
a
bulbous
nose
,
short
limbs
,
flat
,
cheesy
feet
,
swollen
gem
'
talia
,
choleric
temperament
,
and
a
stale
mouth
odor-not
a
handsome
man
,
aromatically
speaking
,
this
sack-maker
,
not
worth
being
held
on
to
for
any
length
of
time
,
like
the
puppy
.
And
yet
for
one
whole
night
Grenouille
let
the
scent-specter
flutter
about
his
cabin
while
he
sniffed
at
him
again
and
again
,
happy
and
deeply
satisfied
with
the
sense
of
power
that
he
had
won
over
the
aura
of
another
human
being
.
He
poured
it
out
the
next
day.He
tried
one
more
experiment
during
these
winter
days
.
He
discovered
a
deaf-mute
beggar
woman
wandering
through
the
town
and
paid
her
one
franc
to
wear
several
different
sets
of
rags
smeared
with
oils
and
fats
against
her
naked
skin
.
It
turned
out
that
lamb
suet
,
pork
lard
,
and
beef
tallow
,
rendered
many
times
over
,
combined
in
a
ratio
of
two
to
five
to
three-with
the
addition
of
a
small
amount
of
virgin
oil-was
best
for
absorbing
human
odor.Grenouille
let
it
go
at
that
.
He
refrained
from
overpowering
some
whole
,
live
person
and
processing
him
or
her
perfumatorily
.
That
sort
of
thing
would
have
meant
risks
and
would
have
resulted
in
no
new
knowledge
He
knew
he
now
was
master
of
the
techniques
needed
to
rob
a
human
of
his
or
her
scent
,
and
he
knew
it
was
unnecessary
to
prove
this
fact
anew.Indeed
,
human
odor
was
of
no
importance
to
him
whatever
.
He
could
imitate
human
odor
quite
well
enough
with
surrogates
.
What
he
coveted
was
the
odor
of
certain
human
beings
:
that
is
,
those
rare
humans
who
inspire
love
.
These
were
his
victims
.
IN
JANUARY
THE
widow
Arnulfi
married
her
first
journeyman
,
Dominique
Druot
,
who
was
thus
promoted
to
mattre
gantier
et
parfumeur
.
There
was
a
great
banquet
for
the
guild
masters
and
a
more
modest
one
for
the
journeymen
;
Madame
bought
a
new
mattress
for
her
bed
,
which
she
now
shared
officially
with
Druot
,
and
took
her
gay
finery
from
the
armoire
.
Otherwise
,
everything
remained
as
it
was
.
She
retained
the
fine
old
name
of
Arnulfi
and
retained
her
fortune
for
herself
,
as
well
as
the
management
of
the
finances
and
the
keys
to
the
cellar
;
Druot
fulfilled
his
sexual
duties
daily
and
refreshed
himself
afterwards
with
wine
;
and
although
he
was
now
the
one
and
only
journeyman
,
Grenouille
took
care
of
most
of
the
work
at
hand
in
return
for
the
same
small
salary
,
frugal
board
,
and
cramped
quarters.The
year
began
with
a
yellow
flood
of
cassias
,
then
hyacinths
,
violet
petals
,
and
narcotic
narcissus
.
One
Sunday
in
March-it
was
about
a
year
now
since
his
arrival
in
Grasse-Grenouille
set
out
to
see
how
things
stood
in
the
garden
behind
the
wall
at
the
other
end
of
town
.
He
was
ready
for
the
scent
this
time
,
knew
more
or
less
exactly
what
awaited
him
...
and
nevertheless
,
as
he
caught
a
whiff
of
it
,
at
the
Porte
Neuve
,
no
more
than
halfway
to
the
spot
beside
the
wall
,
his
heart
beat
more
loudly
and
he
felt
the
blood
in
his
veins
tingle
with
pleasure
:
she
was
still
there
,
the
incomparably
beautiful
flower
,
she
had
survived
the
winter
unblemished
,
her
sap
was
running
,
she
was
growing
,
expanding
,
driving
forth
the
most
exquisite
ranks
of
buds
!
Her
scent
had
grown
stronger
,
just
as
he
had
expected
,
without
losing
any
of
its
delicacy
.
What
a
year
before
had
been
sprinkled
and
dappled
about
was
now
blended
into
a
faint
,
smooth
stream
of
scent
that
shimmered
with
a
thousand
colors
and
yet
bound
each
color
to
it
and
did
not
break
.
And
this
stream
,
Grenouille
recognized
blissfully
,
was
fed
by
a
spring
that
grew
ever
fuller
.
Another
year
,
just
one
more
year
,
just
twelve
more
months
,
and
that
spring
would
gush
over
,
and
he
could
come
to
cap
it
and
imprison
the
wild
flow
of
its
scent.He
walked
along
the
wall
to
the
spot
behind
which
he
knew
the
garden
was
located
.
Although
the
girl
was
apparently
not
in
the
garden
but
in
the
house
,
in
her
room
behind
closed
windows
,
her
scent
floated
down
to
him
like
a
steady
,
gentle
breeze
.
Grenouille
stood
quite
still
.
He
was
not
intoxicated
or
dizzy
as
he
had
been
the
first
time
he
had
smelled
it
.
He
was
filled
with
the
happiness
of
a
lover
who
has
heard
or
seen
his
darling
from
afar
and
knows
that
he
will
bring
her
home
within
the
year
.
It
was
really
true-Grenouille
,
the
solitary
tick
,
the
abomination
,
Grenouille
the
Monster
,
who
had
never
felt
love
and
would
never
be
able
to
inspire
it
,
stood
there
beside
the
city
wall
of
Grasse
on
that
day
in
March
and
loved
and
was
profoundly
happy
in
his
love.True
,
he
did
not
love
another
human
being
,
certainly
not
the
girl
who
lived
in
the
house
beyond
the
wall
.
He
loved
her
scent-that
alone
,
nothing
else
,
and
only
inasmuch
as
it
would
one
day
be
his
alone
.
He
would
bring
it
home
within
the
year
,
he
swore
it
by
his
very
life
.
And
after
this
strange
oath
,
or
betrothal
,
this
promise
of
loyalty
given
to
himself
and
to
his
future
scent
,
he
left
the
place
light
of
heart
and
returned
to
town
through
the
Porte
du
Cours.That
night
,
as
he
lay
in
his
cabin
,
he
conjured
up
the
memory
of
the
scent-he
could
not
resist
the
temptation-and
immersed
himself
in
it
,
caressed
it
,
and
let
it
caress
him
,
so
near
to
it
,
as
fabulously
close
as
if
he
possessed
it
already
in
reality
,
his
scent
,
his
own
scent
;
and
he
made
love
to
it
and
to
himself
through
it
for
an
intoxicatingly
,
deliciously
long
time
.
He
wanted
this
self-loved
feeling
to
accompany
him
in
his
sleep
.
But
at
the
very
instant
when
he
closed
his
eyes
,
in
the
moment
of
the
single
breath
it
takes
to
fall
asleep
,
it
deserted
him
,
was
suddenly
gone
,
and
in
its
place
the
room
was
filled
with
the
cold
,
acrid
smell
of
goat
stall.Grenouille
was
terrified
.
What
happens
,
he
thought
,
if
the
scent
,
once
I
possess
it
...
what
happens
if
it
runs
out
?
It
's
not
the
same
as
it
is
in
your
memory
,
where
all
scents
are
indestructible
.
The
real
thing
gets
used
up
in
this
world
.
It
's
transient
.
And
by
the
time
it
has
been
used
up
,
the
source
I
took
it
from
will
no
longer
exist
.
And
I
will
be
as
naked
as
before
and
will
have
to
get
along
with
surrogates
,
just
like
before
.
No
,
it
will
be
even
worse
than
before
!
For
in
the
meantime
I
will
have
known
it
and
possessed
it
,
my
own
splendid
scent
,
and
I
will
not
be
able
to
forget
it
,
because
I
never
forget
a
scent
.
And
for
the
rest
of
my
life
I
will
feed
on
it
in
my
memory
,
just
as
I
was
feeding
right
now
from
the
premonition
of
what
I
will
possess
...
What
do
I
need
it
for
at
all?This
was
a
most
unpleasant
thought
for
Grenouille
.
It
frightened
him
beyond
measure
to
think
that
once
he
did
possess
the
scent
that
he
did
not
yet
possess
,
he
must
inevitably
lose
it
.
How
long
could
he
keep
it
?
A
few
days
?
A
few
weeks
?
Perhaps
a
whole
month
,
if
he
perfumed
himself
very
sparingly
with
it
?
And
then
?
He
saw
himself
shaking
the
last
drops
from
the
bottle
,
rinsing
the
flacon
with
alcohol
so
that
the
last
little
bit
would
not
be
lost
,
and
then
he
saw
,
smelled
,
how
his
beloved
scent
would
vanish
in
the
air
,
irrevocably
,
forever
.
It
would
be
like
a
long
slow
death
,
a
kind
of
suffocation
in
reverse
,
an
agonizing
gradual
self-evaporation
into
the
wretched
world.He
felt
chilled
.
He
was
overcome
with
a
desire
to
abandon
his
plans
,
to
walk
out
into
the
night
and
disappear
.
He
would
wander
across
the
snow-covered
mountains
,
not
pausing
to
rest
,
hundreds
of
miles
into
the
Auvergne
,
and
there
creep
into
his
old
cave
and
fall
asleep
and
die
.
But
he
did
not
do
it
.
He
sat
there
and
did
not
yield
to
his
desire
,
although
it
was
strong
.
He
did
not
yield
,
because
that
desire
was
an
old
one
of
his
,
to
run
away
and
hide
in
a
cave
.
He
knew
about
that
already
.
What
he
did
not
yet
know
was
what
it
was
like
to
possess
a
human
scent
as
splendid
as
the
scent
of
the
girl
behind
the
wall
.
And
even
knowing
that
to
possess
that
scent
he
must
pay
the
terrible
price
of
losing
it
again
,
the
very
possession
and
the
loss
seemed
to
him
more
desirable
than
a
prosaic
renunciation
of
both
.
For
he
had
renounced
things
all
his
life
.
But
never
once
had
he
possessed
and
lost.Gradually
the
doubts
receded
and
with
them
the
chill
.
He
sensed
how
the
warmth
of
his
blood
revitalized
him
and
how
the
will
to
do
what
he
had
intended
to
do
again
took
possession
of
him
.
Even
more
powerfully
than
before
in
fact
,
for
that
will
no
longer
originated
from
simple
lust
,
but
equally
from
a
well-considered
decision
.
Grenouille
the
tick
,
presented
the
choice
between
drying
up
inside
himself
or
letting
himself
drop
,
had
decided
for
the
latter
,
knowing
full
well
that
this
drop
would
be
his
last
.
He
lay
back
on
his
makeshift
bed
,
cozy
in
his
straw
,
cozy
under
his
blanket
,
and
thought
himself
very
heroic.Grenouille
would
not
have
been
Grenouille
,
however
,
if
he
had
long
been
content
with
a
fatalist
's
heroic
feelings
.
His
will
to
survive
and
conquer
was
too
tough
,
his
nature
too
cunning
,
his
spirit
too
crafty
for
that
.
Fine-he
had
decided
to
possess
the
scent
of
the
girl
behind
the
wall
.
And
if
he
lost
it
again
after
a
few
weeks
and
died
of
the
loss
,
that
was
fine
too
.
But
better
yet
would
be
not
to
die
and
still
possess
the
scent
,
or
at
least
to
delay
its
loss
as
long
as
humanly
possible
.
One
simply
had
to
preserve
it
better
.
One
must
subdue
its
evanescence
without
robbing
it
of
its
character-a
problem
of
the
perfumer
's
art.There
are
scents
that
linger
for
decades
.
A
cupboard
rubbed
with
musk
,
a
piece
of
leather
drenched
with
cinnamon
oil
,
a
glob
of
ambergris
,
a
cedar
chest
--
they
all
possess
virtually
eternal
olfactory
life
.
While
other
things-lime
oil
,
bergamot
,
jonquil
and
tuberose
extracts
,
and
many
floral
scents-evaporate
within
a
few
hours
if
they
are
exposed
to
the
air
in
a
pure
,
unbound
form
.
The
perfumer
counteracts
this
fatal
circumstance
by
binding
scents
that
are
too
volatile
,
by
putting
them
in
chains
,
so
to
speak
,
taming
their
urge
for
freedom-though
his
art
consists
of
leaving
enough
slack
in
the
chains
for
the
odor
seemingly
to
preserve
its
freedom
,
even
when
it
is
tied
so
deftly
that
it
can
not
flee
.
Grenouille
had
once
succeeded
in
performing
this
feat
perfectly
with
some
tuberose
oil
,
whose
ephemeral
scent
he
had
chained
with
tiny
quantities
of
civet
,
vanilla
,
labdanum
,
and
cypress-only
then
did
it
truly
come
into
its
own
.
Why
should
not
something
similar
be
possible
with
the
scent
of
this
girl
?
Why
should
he
have
to
use
,
to
waste
,
this
most
precious
and
fragile
of
all
scents
in
pure
form
?
How
crude
!
How
extraordinarily
unsophisticated
!
Did
one
leave
diamonds
uncut
?
Did
one
wear
gold
in
nuggets
around
one
's
neck
?
Was
he
,
Grenouille
,
a
primitive
pillager
of
scents
like
Druot
or
these
other
maceraters
,
distillers
,
and
blossom
crushers
?
Or
was
he
not
,
rather
,
the
greatest
perfumer
in
the
world?He
banged
his
fist
against
his
brow-to
think
he
had
not
realized
this
before
.
But
of
course
this
unique
scent
could
not
be
used
in
a
raw
state
.
He
must
set
it
like
the
most
precious
gemstone
He
must
design
a
diadem
of
scent
,
and
at
its
sublime
acme
,
intertwined
with
the
other
scents
and
yet
ruling
over
them
,
his
scent
would
gleam
.
He
would
make
a
perfume
using
all
the
precepts
of
the
art
,
and
the
scent
of
the
girl
behind
the
wall
would
be
the
very
soul
of
it.As
the
adjuvants
,
as
bass
,
tenor
,
and
soprano
,
as
zenith
and
as
fixative
,
musk
and
civet
,
attar
of
roses
or
neroli
were
inappropriate-that
was
certain
.
For
such
a
perfume
,
for
a
human
perfume
,
he
had
need
of
other
ingredients
.
IN
MAY
OF
that
same
year
,
the
naked
body
of
a
fifteen-year-old
girl
was
found
in
a
rose
field
,
halfway
between
Grasse
and
the
hamlet
of
Opio
east
of
town
.
She
had
been
killed
by
a
heavy
blow
to
the
back
of
the
head
.
The
farmer
who
discovered
her
was
so
disconcerted
by
the
gruesome
sight
that
he
almost
ended
up
a
suspect
himself
,
when
in
a
quivering
voice
he
told
the
police
lieutenant
that
he
had
never
seen
anything
so
beautiful-when
he
had
really
wanted
to
say
that
he
had
never
seen
anything
so
awful.She
was
indeed
a
girl
of
exquisite
beauty
.
She
was
one
of
those
languid
women
made
of
dark
honey
,
smooth
and
sweet
and
terribly
sticky
,
who
take
control
of
a
room
with
a
syrupy
gesture
,
a
toss
of
the
hair
,
a
single
slow
whiplash
of
the
eyes-and
all
the
while
remain
as
still
as
the
center
of
a
hurricane
,
apparently
unaware
of
the
force
of
gravity
by
which
they
irresistibly
attract
to
themselves
the
yearnings
and
the
souls
of
both
men
and
women
.
And
she
was
young
,
so
very
young
,
that
the
flow
of
her
allure
had
not
yet
grown
viscous
.
Her
full
limbs
were
still
smooth
and
solid
,
her
breasts
plump
and
pert
as
hard-boiled
eggs
,
and
the
planes
of
her
face
,
brushed
by
her
heavy
black
hair
,
still
had
the
most
delicate
contours
and
secret
places
.
Her
hair
,
however
,
was
gone
.
The
murderer
had
cut
it
off
and
taken
it
with
him
,
along
with
her
clothes.People
suspected
the
gypsies
.
Gypsies
were
capable
of
anything
.
Gypsies
were
known
to
weave
carpets
out
of
old
clothes
and
to
stuff
their
pillows
with
human
hair
and
to
make
dolls
out
of
the
skin
and
teeth
of
the
hanged
.
Only
gypsies
could
be
involved
in
such
a
perverse
crime
.
