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MADAME
GAILLARD
'S
life
already
lay
behind
her
,
though
she
was
not
yet
thirty
years
old
.
To
the
world
she
looked
as
old
as
her
years-and
at
the
same
time
two
,
three
,
a
hundred
times
older
,
like
the
mummy
of
a
young
girl
.
But
on
the
inside
she
was
long
since
dead
.
When
she
was
a
child
,
her
father
had
struck
her
across
the
forehead
with
a
poker
,
just
above
the
base
of
the
nose
,
and
she
had
lost
for
good
all
sense
of
smell
and
every
sense
of
human
warmth
and
human
coldness-indeed
,
every
human
passion
.
With
that
one
blow
,
tenderness
had
become
as
foreign
to
her
as
enmity
,
joy
as
strange
as
despair
.
She
felt
nothing
when
later
she
slept
with
a
man
,
and
just
as
little
when
she
bore
her
children
.
She
did
not
grieve
over
those
that
died
,
nor
rejoice
over
those
that
remained
to
her
.
When
her
husband
beat
her
,
she
did
not
flinch
,
and
she
felt
no
sense
of
relief
when
he
died
of
cholera
in
the
Hotel-Dieu
.
The
only
two
sensations
that
she
was
aware
of
were
a
very
slight
depression
at
the
approach
of
her
monthly
migraine
and
a
very
slight
elevation
of
mood
at
its
departure
.
Otherwise
,
this
numbed
woman
felt
nothing
.
On
the
other
hand
...
or
perhaps
precisely
because
of
her
total
lack
of
emotion
...
Madame
Gaillard
had
a
merciless
sense
of
order
and
justice
.
She
showed
no
preference
for
any
one
of
the
children
entrusted
to
her
nor
discriminated
against
any
one
of
them
.
She
served
up
three
meals
a
day
and
not
the
tiniest
snack
more
.
She
diapered
the
little
ones
three
times
a
day
,
but
only
until
their
second
birthday
.
Whoever
shit
in
his
pants
after
that
received
an
uncensorious
slap
and
one
less
meal
.
Exactly
one
half
of
the
boarding
fees
were
spent
for
her
wards
,
exactly
one
half
she
retained
for
herself
.
She
did
not
attempt
to
increase
her
profits
when
prices
went
down
;
and
in
hard
times
she
did
not
charge
a
single
sol
extra
,
even
when
it
was
a
matter
of
life
and
death
.
Otherwise
her
business
would
have
been
of
no
value
to
her
.
She
needed
the
money
.
She
had
figured
it
down
to
the
penny
.
In
her
old
age
she
wanted
to
buy
an
annuity
,
with
just
enough
beyond
that
so
that
she
could
afford
to
die
at
home
rather
than
perish
miserably
in
the
Hotel-Dieu
as
her
husband
had
.
The
death
itself
had
left
her
cold
.
But
she
dreaded
a
communal
,
public
death
among
hundreds
of
strangers
.
She
wanted
to
afford
a
private
death
,
and
for
that
she
needed
her
full
cut
of
the
boarding
fees
.
True
,
there
were
winters
when
three
or
four
of
her
two
dozen
little
boarders
died
.
Still
,
her
record
was
considerably
better
than
that
of
most
other
private
foster
mothers
and
surpassed
by
far
the
record
of
the
great
public
and
ecclesiastical
orphanages
,
where
the
losses
often
came
to
nine
out
of
ten
.
There
were
plenty
of
replacements
.
Paris
produced
over
ten
thousand
new
foundlings
,
bastards
,
and
orphans
a
year
.
Several
such
losses
were
quite
affordable.For
little
Grenouille
,
Madame
Gaillard
's
establishment
was
a
blessing
.
He
probably
could
not
have
survived
anywhere
else
.
But
here
,
with
this
small-souled
woman
,
he
throve
.
He
had
a
tough
constitution
.
Whoever
has
survived
his
own
birth
in
a
garbage
can
is
not
so
easily
shoved
back
out
of
this
world
again
.
He
could
eat
watery
soup
for
days
on
end
,
he
managed
on
the
thinnest
milk
,
digested
the
rottenest
vegetables
and
spoiled
meat
.
In
the
course
of
his
childhood
he
survived
the
measles
,
dysentery
,
chicken
pox
,
cholera
,
a
twenty-foot
fall
into
a
well
,
and
a
scalding
with
boiling
water
poured
over
his
chest
.
True
,
he
bore
scars
and
chafings
and
scabs
from
it
all
,
and
a
slightly
crippled
foot
left
him
with
a
limp
,
but
he
lived
.
He
was
as
tough
as
a
resistant
bacterium
and
as
content
as
a
tick
sitting
quietly
on
a
tree
and
living
off
a
tiny
drop
of
blood
plundered
years
before
.
He
required
a
minimum
ration
of
food
and
clothing
for
his
body
.
For
his
soul
he
required
nothing
.
Security
,
attention
,
tenderness
,
love-or
whatever
all
those
things
are
called
that
children
are
said
to
require
--
were
totally
dispensable
for
the
young
Grenouille
.
Or
rather
,
so
it
seems
to
us
,
he
had
totally
dispensed
with
them
just
to
go
on
living-from
the
very
start
.
The
cry
that
followed
his
birth
,
the
cry
with
which
he
had
brought
himself
to
people
's
attention
and
his
mother
to
the
gallows
,
was
not
an
instinctive
cry
for
sympathy
and
love
.
That
cry
,
emitted
upon
careful
consideration
,
one
might
almost
say
upon
mature
consideration
,
was
the
newborn
's
decision
against
love
and
nevertheless
for
life
.
Under
the
circumstances
,
the
latter
was
possible
only
without
the
former
,
and
had
the
child
demanded
both
,
it
would
doubtless
have
abruptly
come
to
a
grisly
end
.
Of
course
,
it
could
have
grabbed
the
other
possibility
open
to
it
and
held
its
peace
and
thus
have
chosen
the
path
from
birth
to
death
without
a
detour
by
way
of
life
,
sparing
itself
and
the
world
a
great
deal
of
mischief
.
But
to
have
made
such
a
modest
exit
would
have
demanded
a
modicum
of
native
civility
,
and
that
Grenouille
did
not
possess
.
He
was
an
abomination
from
the
start.He
decided
in
favor
of
life
out
of
sheer
spite
and
sheer
malice.Obviously
he
did
not
decide
this
as
an
adult
would
decide
,
who
requires
his
more
or
less
substantial
experience
and
reason
to
choose
among
various
options
.
But
he
did
decide
vegetatively
,
as
a
bean
when
once
tossed
aside
must
decide
if
it
ought
to
germinate
or
had
better
let
things
be.Or
like
that
tick
in
the
tree
,
for
which
life
has
nothing
better
to
offer
than
perpetual
hibernation
.
The
ugly
little
tick
,
which
by
rolling
its
blue-gray
body
up
into
a
ball
offers
the
least
possible
surface
to
the
world
;
which
by
making
its
skin
smooth
and
dense
emits
nothing
,
lets
not
the
tiniest
bit
of
perspiration
escape
.
The
tick
,
which
makes
itself
extra
small
and
inconspicuous
so
that
no
one
will
see
it
and
step
on
it
.
The
lonely
tick
,
which
,
wrapped
up
in
itself
,
huddles
in
its
tree
,
blind
,
deaf
,
and
dumb
,
and
simply
sniffs
,
sniffs
all
year
long
,
for
miles
around
,
for
the
blood
of
some
passing
animal
that
it
could
never
reach
on
its
own
power
.
The
tick
could
let
itself
drop
.
It
could
fall
to
the
floor
of
the
forest
and
creep
a
millimeter
or
two
here
or
there
on
its
six
tiny
legs
and
lie
down
to
die
under
the
leaves-it
would
be
no
great
loss
,
God
knows
.
But
the
tick
,
stubborn
,
sullen
,
and
loathsome
,
huddles
there
and
lives
and
waits
.
Waits
,
for
that
most
improbable
of
chances
that
will
bring
blood
,
in
animal
form
,
directly
beneath
its
tree
.
And
only
then
does
it
abandon
caution
and
drop
,
and
scratch
and
bore
and
bite
into
that
alien
flesh
...
The
young
Grenouille
was
such
a
tick
.
He
lived
encapsulated
in
himself
and
waited
for
better
times
.
He
gave
the
world
nothing
but
his
dung-no
smile
,
no
cry
,
no
glimmer
in
the
eye
,
not
even
his
own
scent
.
Every
other
woman
would
have
kicked
this
monstrous
child
out
.
But
not
Madame
Gaillard
.
She
could
not
smell
that
he
did
not
smell
,
and
she
expected
no
stirrings
from
his
soul
,
because
her
own
was
sealed
tight.The
other
children
,
however
,
sensed
at
once
what
Grenouille
was
about
.
From
the
first
day
,
the
new
arrival
gave
them
the
creeps
.
They
avoided
the
box
in
which
he
lay
and
edged
closer
together
in
their
beds
as
if
it
had
grown
colder
in
the
room
.
The
younger
ones
would
sometimes
cry
out
in
the
night
;
they
felt
a
draft
sweep
through
the
room
.
Others
dreamed
something
was
taking
their
breath
away
.
One
day
the
older
ones
conspired
to
suffocate
him
.
They
piled
rags
and
blankets
and
straw
over
his
face
and
weighed
it
all
down
with
bricks
.
When
Madame
Gaillard
dug
him
out
the
next
morning
,
he
was
crumpled
and
squashed
and
blue
,
but
not
dead
.
They
tried
it
a
couple
of
times
more
,
but
in
vain
.
Simple
strangulation-using
their
bare
hands
or
stopping
up
his
mouth
and
nose
--
would
have
been
a
dependable
method
,
but
they
did
not
dare
try
it
.
They
did
n't
want
to
touch
him
He
disgusted
them
the
way
a
fat
spider
that
you
ca
n't
bring
yourself
to
crush
in
your
own
hand
disgusts
you.As
he
grew
older
,
they
gave
up
their
attempted
murders
.
They
probably
realized
that
he
could
not
be
destroyed
.
Instead
,
they
stayed
out
of
his
way
,
ran
off
,
or
at
least
avoided
touching
him
.
They
did
not
hate
him
.
They
were
n't
jealous
of
him
either
,
nor
did
they
begrudge
him
the
food
he
ate
.
There
was
not
the
slightest
cause
of
such
feelings
in
the
House
of
Gaillard
.
It
simply
disturbed
them
that
he
was
there
.
They
could
not
stand
the
nonsmell
of
him
.
They
were
afraid
of
him
.
LOOKED
AT
objectively
,
however
,
there
was
nothing
at
all
about
him
to
instill
terror
.
As
he
grew
older
,
he
was
not
especially
big
,
nor
strong-ugly
,
true
,
but
not
so
extremely
ugly
that
people
would
necessarily
have
taken
fright
at
him
.
He
was
not
aggressive
,
nor
underhanded
,
nor
furtive
,
he
did
not
provoke
people
.
He
preferred
to
keep
out
of
their
way
.
And
he
appeared
to
possess
nothing
even
approaching
a
fearful
intelligence
.
Not
until
age
three
did
he
finally
begin
to
stand
on
two
feet
;
he
spoke
his
first
word
at
four
,
it
was
the
word
"
fishes
,
"
which
in
a
moment
of
sudden
excitement
burst
from
him
like
an
echo
when
a
fishmonger
coming
up
the
rue
de
Charonne
cried
out
his
wares
in
the
distance
.
The
next
words
he
parted
with
were
"
pelargonium
,
"
"
goat
stall
,
"
"
savoy
cabbage
,
"
and
"
Jacqueslorreur
,
"
this
last
being
the
name
of
a
gardener
's
helper
from
the
neighboring
convent
of
the
Filles
de
la
Croix
,
who
occasionally
did
rough
,
indeed
very
rough
work
for
Madame
Gaillard
,
and
was
most
conspicuous
for
never
once
having
washed
in
all
his
life
.
He
was
less
concerned
with
verbs
,
adjectives
,
and
expletives
.
Except
for
"
yes
"
and
"
no
"
-
which
,
by
the
way
,
he
used
for
the
first
time
quite
late-he
used
only
nouns
,
and
essentially
only
nouns
for
concrete
objects
,
plants
,
animals
,
human
beings
--
and
only
then
if
the
objects
,
plants
,
animals
,
or
human
beings
would
subdue
him
with
a
sudden
attack
of
odor.One
day
as
he
sat
on
a
cord
of
beechwood
logs
snapping
and
cracking
in
the
March
sun
,
he
first
uttered
the
word
"
wood
.
"
He
had
seen
wood
a
hundred
times
before
,
had
heard
the
word
a
hundred
times
before
.
He
understood
it
,
too
,
for
he
had
often
been
sent
to
fetch
wood
in
winter
.
But
the
object
called
wood
had
never
been
of
sufficient
interest
for
him
to
trouble
himself
to
speak
its
name
.
It
happened
first
on
that
March
day
as
he
sat
on
the
cord
of
wood
,
The
cord
was
stacked
beneath
overhanging
eaves
and
formed
a
kind
of
bench
along
the
south
side
of
Madam
Gaillard
's
shed
.
The
top
logs
gave
off
a
sweet
burnt
smell
,
and
up
from
the
depths
of
the
cord
came
a
mossy
aroma
;
and
in
the
warm
sun
,
bits
of
resin
odor
crumbled
from
the
pinewood
planking
of
the
shed.Grenouille
sat
on
the
logs
,
his
legs
outstretched
and
his
back
leaned
against
the
wall
of
the
shed
.
He
had
closed
his
eyes
and
did
not
stir
.
He
saw
nothing
,
he
heard
nothing
,
he
felt
nothing
.
He
only
smelled
the
aroma
of
the
wood
rising
up
around
him
to
be
captured
under
the
bonnet
of
the
eaves
.
He
drank
in
the
aroma
,
he
drowned
in
it
,
impregnating
himself
through
his
innermost
pores
,
until
he
became
wood
himself
;
he
lay
on
the
cord
of
wood
like
a
wooden
puppet
,
like
Pinocchio
,
as
if
dead
,
until
after
a
long
while
,
perhaps
a
half
hour
or
more
,
he
gagged
up
the
word
"
wood
.
"
He
vomited
the
word
up
,
as
if
he
were
filled
with
wood
to
his
ears
,
as
if
buried
in
wood
to
his
neck
,
as
if
his
stomach
,
his
gorge
,
his
nose
were
spilling
over
with
wood
.
And
that
brought
him
to
himself
,
rescued
him
only
moments
before
the
overpowering
presence
of
the
wood
,
its
aroma
,
was
about
to
suffocate
him
.
He
shook
himself
,
slid
down
off
the
logs
,
and
tottered
away
as
if
on
wooden
legs
.
Days
later
he
was
still
completely
fuddled
by
the
intense
olfactory
experience
,
and
whenever
the
memory
of
it
rose
up
too
powerfully
within
him
he
would
mutter
imploringly
,
over
and
over
,
"
wood
,
wood
.
"
And
so
he
learned
to
speak
.
With
words
designating
nonsmelling
objects
,
with
abstract
ideas
and
the
like
,
especially
those
of
an
ethical
or
moral
nature
,
he
had
the
greatest
difficulty
.
He
could
not
retain
them
,
confused
them
with
one
another
,
and
even
as
an
adult
used
them
unwillingly
and
often
incorrectly
:
justice
,
conscience
,
God
,
joy
,
responsibility
,
humility
,
gratitude
,
etc.-what
these
were
meant
to
express
remained
a
mystery
to
him.On
the
other
hand
,
everyday
language
soon
would
prove
inadequate
for
designating
all
the
olfactory
notions
that
he
had
accumulated
within
himself
.
Soon
he
was
no
longer
smelling
mere
wood
,
but
kinds
of
wood
:
maple
wood
,
oak
wood
,
pinewood
,
elm
wood
,
pearwood
,
old
,
young
,
rotting
,
moldering
,
mossy
wood
,
down
to
single
logs
,
chips
,
and
splinters-and
could
clearly
differentiate
them
as
objects
in
a
way
that
other
people
could
not
have
done
by
sight
.
It
was
the
same
with
other
things
.
For
instance
,
the
white
drink
that
Madame
Gaillard
served
her
wards
each
day
,
why
should
it
be
designated
uniformly
as
milk
,
when
to
Grenouilie
's
senses
it
smelled
and
tasted
completely
different
every
morning
depending
on
how
warm
it
was
,
which
cow
it
had
come
from
,
what
that
cow
had
been
eating
,
how
much
cream
had
been
left
in
it
and
so
on
...
Or
why
should
smoke
possess
only
the
name
"
smoke
,
"
when
from
minute
to
minute
,
second
to
second
,
the
amalgam
of
hundreds
of
odors
mixed
iridescently
into
ever
new
and
changing
unities
as
the
smoke
rose
from
the
fire
...
or
why
should
earth
,
landscape
,
air-each
filled
at
every
step
and
every
breath
with
yet
another
odor
and
thus
animated
with
another
identity-still
be
designated
by
just
those
three
coarse
words
.
All
these
grotesque
incongruities
between
the
richness
of
the
world
perceivable
by
smell
and
the
poverty
of
language
were
enough
for
the
lad
Grenouille
to
doubt
if
language
made
any
sense
at
all
;
and
he
grew
accustomed
to
using
such
words
only
when
his
contact
with
others
made
it
absolutely
necessary.At
age
six
he
had
completely
grasped
his
surroundings
olfactorily
.
There
was
not
an
object
in
Madame
Gaillard
's
house
,
no
place
along
the
northern
reaches
of
the
rue
de
Charonne
,
no
person
,
no
stone
,
tree
,
bush
,
or
picket
fence
,
no
spot
be
it
ever
so
small
,
that
he
did
not
know
by
smell
,
could
not
recognize
again
by
holding
its
uniqueness
firmly
in
his
memory
.
