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IT
WAS
LIKE
living
in
Utopia
.
The
adjacent
neighborhoods
of
Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie
and
Saint-Eustache
were
a
wonderland
.
In
the
narrow
side
streets
off
the
rue
Saint-Denis
and
the
rue
Saint-Martin
,
people
lived
so
densely
packed
,
each
house
so
tightly
pressed
to
the
next
,
five
,
six
stories
high
,
that
you
could
not
see
the
sky
,
and
the
air
at
ground
level
formed
damp
canals
where
odors
congealed
.
It
was
a
mixture
of
human
and
animal
smells
,
of
water
and
stone
and
ashes
and
leather
,
of
soap
and
fresh-baked
bread
and
eggs
boiled
in
vinegar
,
of
noodles
and
smoothly
polished
brass
,
of
sage
and
ale
and
tears
,
of
grease
and
soggy
straw
and
dry
straw
.
Thousands
upon
thousands
of
odors
formed
an
invisible
gruel
that
filled
the
street
ravines
,
only
seldom
evaporating
above
the
rooftops
and
never
from
the
ground
below
.
The
people
who
lived
there
no
longer
experienced
this
gruel
as
a
special
smell
;
it
had
arisen
from
them
and
they
had
been
steeped
in
it
over
and
over
again
;
it
was
,
after
all
,
the
very
air
they
breathed
and
from
which
they
lived
,
it
was
like
clothes
you
have
worn
so
long
you
no
longer
smell
them
or
feel
them
against
your
skin
.
Grenouille
,
however
,
smelled
it
all
as
if
for
the
first
time
.
And
he
did
not
merely
smell
the
mixture
of
odors
in
the
aggregate
,
but
he
dissected
it
analytically
into
its
smallest
and
most
remote
parts
and
pieces
.
His
discerning
nose
unraveled
the
knot
of
vapor
and
stench
into
single
strands
of
unitary
odors
that
could
not
be
unthreaded
further
.
Unwinding
and
spinning
out
these
threads
gave
him
unspeakable
joy
.
He
would
often
just
stand
there
,
leaning
against
a
wall
or
crouching
in
a
dark
corner
,
his
eyes
closed
,
his
mouth
half
open
and
nostrils
flaring
wide
,
quiet
as
a
feeding
pike
in
a
great
,
dark
,
slowly
moving
current
.
And
when
at
last
a
puff
of
air
would
toss
a
delicate
thread
of
scent
his
way
,
he
would
lunge
at
it
and
not
let
go
.
Then
he
would
smell
at
only
this
one
odor
,
holding
it
tight
,
pulling
it
into
himself
and
preserving
it
for
all
time
.
The
odor
might
be
an
old
acquaintance
,
or
a
variation
on
one
;
it
could
be
a
brand-new
one
as
well
,
with
hardly
any
similarity
to
anything
he
had
ever
smelled
,
let
alone
seen
,
till
that
moment
:
the
odor
of
pressed
silk
,
for
example
,
the
odor
of
a
wild-thyme
tea
,
the
odor
of
brocade
embroidered
with
silver
thread
,
the
odor
of
a
cork
from
a
bottle
of
vintage
wine
,
the
odor
of
a
tortoiseshell
comb
.
Grenouille
was
out
to
find
such
odors
still
unknown
to
him
;
he
hunted
them
down
with
the
passion
and
patience
of
an
angler
and
stored
them
up
inside
him
.
When
he
had
smelled
his
fill
of
the
thick
gruel
of
the
streets
,
he
would
go
to
airier
terrain
,
where
the
odors
were
thinner
,
mixing
with
the
wind
as
they
unfurled
,
much
as
perfume
does-to
the
market
of
Les
Halles
,
for
instance
,
where
the
odors
of
the
day
lived
on
into
the
evening
,
invisibly
but
ever
so
distinctly
,
as
if
the
vendors
still
swarmed
among
the
crowd
,
as
if
the
baskets
still
stood
there
stuffed
full
of
vegetables
and
eggs
,
or
the
casks
full
of
wine
and
vinegar
,
the
sacks
with
their
spices
and
potatoes
and
flour
,
the
crates
of
nails
and
screws
,
the
meat
tables
,
the
tables
full
of
doth
and
dishes
and
shoe
soles
and
all
the
hundreds
of
other
things
sold
there
during
the
day
...
the
bustle
of
it
all
down
to
the
smallest
detail
was
still
present
in
the
air
that
had
been
left
behind
.
Gre-nouille
saw
the
whole
market
smelling
,
if
it
can
be
put
that
way
.
And
he
smelled
it
more
precisely
than
many
people
could
see
it
,
for
his
perception
was
after
the
fact
and
thus
of
a
higher
order
:
an
essence
,
a
spirit
of
what
had
been
,
something
undisturbed
by
the
everyday
accidents
of
the
moment
,
like
noise
,
glare
,
or
the
nauseating
press
of
living
human
beings.Or
he
would
go
to
the
spot
where
they
had
beheaded
his
mother
,
to
the
place
de
Greve
,
which
stuck
out
to
lick
the
river
like
a
huge
tongue
.
Here
lay
the
ships
,
pulled
up
onto
shore
or
moored
to
posts
,
and
they
smelled
of
coal
and
grain
and
hay
and
damp
ropes
.
And
from
the
west
,
via
this
one
passage
cut
through
the
city
by
the
river
,
came
a
broad
current
of
wind
bringing
with
it
the
odors
of
the
country
,
of
the
meadows
around
Neuilly
,
of
the
forests
between
Saint-Germain
and
Versailles
,
of
far-off
cities
like
Rouen
or
Caen
and
sometimes
of
the
sea
itself
.
The
sea
smelled
like
a
sail
whose
billows
had
caught
up
water
,
salt
,
and
a
cold
sun
.
It
had
a
simple
smell
,
the
sea
,
but
at
the
same
time
it
smelled
immense
and
unique
,
so
much
so
that
Grenouille
hesitated
to
dissect
the
odors
into
fishy
,
salty
,
watery
,
seaweedy
,
fresh-airy
,
and
so
on
.
He
preferred
to
leave
the
smell
of
the
sea
blended
together
,
preserving
it
as
a
unit
in
his
memory
,
relishing
it
whole
.
The
smell
of
the
sea
pleased
him
so
much
that
he
wanted
one
day
to
take
it
in
,
pure
and
unadulterated
,
in
such
quantities
that
he
could
get
drunk
on
it
.
And
later
,
when
he
learned
from
stories
how
large
the
sea
is
and
that
you
can
sail
upon
it
in
ships
for
days
on
end
without
ever
seeing
land
,
nothing
pleased
him
more
than
the
image
of
himself
sitting
high
up
in
the
crow
's
nest
of
the
foremost
mast
on
such
a
ship
,
gliding
on
through
the
endless
smell
of
the
sea-which
really
was
no
smell
,
but
a
breath
,
an
exhalation
of
breath
,
the
end
of
all
smells-dissolving
with
pleasure
in
that
breath
.
But
it
was
never
to
be
,
for
Grenouille
,
who
stood
there
on
the
riverbank
at
the
place
de
Greve
steadily
breathing
in
and
out
the
scraps
of
sea
breeze
that
he
could
catch
in
his
nose
,
would
never
in
his
life
see
the
sea
,
the
real
sea
,
the
immense
ocean
that
lay
to
the
west
,
and
would
never
be
able
to
mingle
himself
with
its
smell
.
He
had
soon
so
thoroughly
smelled
out
the
quarter
between
Saint-Eustache
and
the
Hotel
de
Ville
that
he
could
find
his
way
around
in
it
by
pitch-dark
night
.
And
so
he
expanded
his
hunting
grounds
,
first
westward
to
the
Faubourg
Saint-Honore
,
then
out
along
the
rue
Saint-Antoine
to
the
Bastille
,
and
finally
across
to
the
other
bank
of
the
river
into
the
quarters
of
the
Sorbonne
and
the
Faubourg
Saint-Germain
where
the
rich
people
lived
.
Through
the
wrought-iron
gates
at
their
portals
came
the
smells
of
coach
leather
and
of
the
powder
in
the
pages
'
wigs
,
and
over
the
high
walls
passed
the
garden
odors
of
broom
and
roses
and
freshly
trimmed
hedges
.
It
was
here
as
well
that
Grenouille
first
smelled
perfume
in
the
literal
sense
of
the
word
:
a
simple
lavender
or
rose
water
,
with
which
the
fountains
of
the
gardens
were
filled
on
gala
occasions
;
but
also
the
more
complex
,
more
costly
scents
,
of
tincture
of
musk
mixed
with
oils
of
neroli
and
tuberose
,
jonquil
,
jasmine
,
or
cinnamon
,
that
floated
behind
the
carriages
like
rich
ribbons
on
the
evening
breeze
.
He
made
note
of
these
scents
,
registering
them
just
as
he
would
profane
odors
,
with
curiosity
,
but
without
particular
admiration
.
Of
course
he
realized
that
the
purpose
of
perfumes
was
to
create
an
intoxicating
and
alluring
effect
,
and
he
recognized
the
value
of
the
individual
essences
that
comprised
them
.
But
on
the
whole
they
seemed
to
him
rather
coarse
and
ponderous
,
more
slapdashed
together
than
composed
,
and
he
knew
that
he
could
produce
entirely
different
fragrances
if
he
only
had
the
basic
ingredients
at
his
disposal
He
knew
many
of
these
ingredients
already
from
the
flower
and
spice
stalls
at
the
market
;
others
were
new
to
him
,
and
he
filtered
them
out
from
the
aromatic
mixture
and
kept
them
unnamed
in
his
memory
:
ambergris
,
civet
,
patchouli
,
sandalwood
,
bergamot
,
vetiver
,
opopanax
,
benzoin
,
hop
blossom
,
castor
...
He
was
not
particular
about
it
.
He
did
not
differentiate
between
what
is
commonly
considered
a
good
and
a
bad
smell
,
not
yet
.
He
was
greedy
.
The
goal
of
the
hunt
was
simply
to
possess
everything
the
world
could
offer
in
the
way
of
odors
,
and
his
only
condition
was
that
the
odors
be
new
ones
.
The
smell
of
a
sweating
horse
meant
just
as
much
to
him
as
the
tender
green
bouquet
of
a
bursting
rosebud
,
the
acrid
stench
of
a
bug
was
no
less
worthy
than
the
aroma
rising
from
a
larded
veal
roast
in
an
aristocrat
's
kitchen
.
He
devoured
everything
,
everything
,
sucking
it
up
into
him
.
But
there
were
no
aesthetic
principles
governing
the
olfactory
kitchen
of
his
imagination
,
where
he
was
forever
synthesizing
and
concocting
new
aromatic
combinations
.
He
fashioned
grotes-queries
,
only
to
destroy
them
again
immediately
,
like
a
child
playing
with
blocks-inventive
and
destructive
,
with
no
apparent
norms
for
his
creativity
.
ON
SEPTEMBER
1
,
1753
,
the
anniversary
of
the
king
's
coronation
,
the
city
of
Paris
set
off
fireworks
at
the
Pont-Royal
.
The
display
was
not
as
spectacular
as
the
fireworks
celebrating
the
king
's
marriage
,
or
as
the
legendary
fireworks
in
honor
of
the
dauphin
's
birth
,
but
it
was
impressive
nevertheless
.
They
had
mounted
golden
sunwheeis
on
the
masts
of
the
ships
.
From
the
bridge
itself
so-called
fire
bulls
spewed
showers
of
burning
stars
into
the
river
.
And
while
from
every
side
came
the
deafening
roar
of
petards
exploding
and
of
firecrackers
skipping
across
the
cobblestones
,
rockets
rose
into
the
sky
and
painted
white
lilies
against
the
black
firmament
.
Thronging
the
bridge
and
the
quays
along
both
banks
of
the
river
,
a
crowd
of
many
thousands
accompanied
the
spectacle
with
ah
's
and
oh
's
and
even
some
"
long
live
"
'
s-although
the
king
had
ascended
his
throne
more
than
thirty-eight
years
before
and
the
high
point
of
his
popularity
was
Song
since
behind
him
.
Fireworks
can
do
that.Grenouille
stood
silent
in
the
shadow
of
the
Pavilion
de
Flore
,
across
from
the
Pont-Neuf
on
the
right
bank
.
He
did
not
stir
a
finger
to
applaud
,
did
not
even
look
up
at
the
ascending
rockets
.
He
had
come
in
hopes
of
getting
a
whiff
of
something
new
,
but
it
soon
became
apparent
that
fireworks
had
nothing
to
offer
in
the
way
of
odors
.
For
all
their
extravagant
variety
as
they
glittered
and
gushed
and
crashed
and
whistled
,
they
left
behind
a
very
monotonous
mixture
of
smells
:
sulfur
,
oil
,
and
saltpeter
.
He
was
just
about
to
leave
this
dreary
exhibition
and
head
homewards
along
the
gallery
of
the
Louvre
when
the
wind
brought
him
something
,
a
tiny
,
hardly
noticeable
something
,
a
crumb
,
an
atom
of
scent
;
no
,
even
less
than
that
:
it
was
more
the
premonition
of
a
scent
than
the
scent
itself-and
at
the
same
time
it
was
definitely
a
premonition
of
something
he
had
never
smelled
before
.
He
backed
up
against
the
wall
,
closed
his
eyes
,
and
flared
his
nostrils
.
The
scent
was
so
exceptionally
delicate
and
fine
that
he
could
not
hold
on
to
it
;
it
continually
eluded
his
perception
,
was
masked
by
the
powder
smoke
of
the
petards
,
blocked
by
the
exudations
of
the
crowd
,
fragmented
and
crushed
by
the
thousands
of
other
city
odors
.
But
then
,
suddenly
,
it
was
there
again
,
a
mere
shred
,
the
whiff
of
a
magnificent
premonition
for
only
a
second
...
and
it
vanished
at
once
.
Grenouille
suffered
agonies
.
For
the
first
time
,
it
was
not
just
that
his
greedy
nature
was
offended
,
but
his
very
heart
ached
.
He
had
the
prescience
of
something
extraordinary-this
scent
was
the
key
for
ordering
all
odors
,
one
could
understand
nothing
about
odors
if
one
did
not
understand
this
one
scent
,
and
his
whole
life
would
be
bungled
,
if
he
,
Grenouille
,
did
not
succeed
in
possessing
it
.
He
had
to
have
it
,
not
simply
in
order
to
possess
it
,
but
for
his
heart
to
be
at
peace.He
was
almost
sick
with
excitement
.
He
had
not
yet
even
figured
out
what
direction
the
scent
was
coming
from
.
Sometimes
there
were
intervals
of
several
minutes
before
a
shred
was
again
wafted
his
way
,
and
each
time
he
was
overcome
by
the
horrible
anxiety
that
he
had
lost
it
forever
.
He
was
finally
rescued
by
a
desperate
conviction
that
the
scent
was
coming
from
the
other
bank
of
the
river
,
from
somewhere
to
the
southeast.He
moved
away
from
the
wall
of
the
Pavilion
de
Flore
,
dived
into
the
crowd
,
and
made
his
way
across
the
bridge
.
Every
few
strides
he
would
stop
and
stand
on
tiptoe
in
order
to
take
a
sniff
from
above
people
's
heads
,
at
first
smelling
nothing
for
pure
excitement
;
then
finally
there
was
something
,
he
smelled
the
scent
,
stronger
than
before
,
knew
that
he
was
on
the
right
track
,
dived
in
again
,
burrowed
through
the
throng
of
gapers
and
pyrotechnicians
unremittingly
setting
torch
to
their
rocket
fuses
,
lost
the
scent
in
the
acrid
smoke
of
the
powder
,
panicked
,
shoved
and
jostled
his
way
through
and
burrowed
onward
,
and
after
countless
minutes
reached
the
far
bank
,
the
Hotel
de
Mailly
,
the
Quai
Malaquest
,
the
entrance
to
the
rue
de
Seine
,
...
Here
he
stopped
,
gathering
his
forces
,
and
smelled
.
He
had
it
.
He
had
hold
of
it
tight
.
The
odor
came
rolling
down
the
rue
de
Seine
like
a
ribbon
,
unmistakably
clear
,
and
yet
as
before
very
delicate
and
very
fine
.
Grenouille
felt
his
heart
pounding
,
and
he
knew
that
it
was
not
the
exertion
of
running
that
had
set
it
pounding
,
but
rather
his
excited
helplessness
in
the
presence
of
this
scent
.
He
tried
to
recall
something
comparable
,
but
had
to
discard
all
comparisons
.
This
scent
had
a
freshness
,
but
not
the
freshness
of
limes
or
pomegranates
,
not
the
freshness
of
myrrh
or
cinnamon
bark
or
curly
mint
or
birch
or
camphor
or
pine
needles
,
nor
that
of
a
May
rain
or
a
frosty
wind
or
of
well
water
...
and
at
the
same
time
it
had
warmth
,
but
not
as
bergamot
,
cypress
,
or
musk
has
,
or
jasmine
or
daffodils
,
not
as
rosewood
has
or
iris
...
This
scent
was
a
blend
of
both
,
of
evanescence
and
substance
,
not
a
blend
,
but
a
unity
,
although
slight
and
frail
as
well
,
and
yet
solid
and
sustaining
,
like
a
piece
of
thin
,
shimmering
silk
...
and
yet
again
not
like
silk
,
but
like
pastry
soaked
in
honeysweet
milk-and
try
as
he
would
he
could
n't
fit
those
two
together
:
milk
and
silk
!
This
scent
was
inconceivable
,
indescribable
,
could
not
be
categorized
in
any
way-it
really
ought
not
to
exist
at
all
.
And
yet
there
it
was
as
plain
and
splendid
as
day
.
Grenouille
followed
it
,
his
fearful
heart
pounding
,
for
he
suspected
that
it
was
not
he
who
followed
the
scent
,
but
the
scent
that
had
captured
him
and
was
drawing
him
irresistibly
to
it.He
walked
up
the
rue
de
Seine
.
No
one
was
on
the
street
.
The
houses
stood
empty
and
still
.
The
people
were
down
by
the
river
watching
the
fireworks
.
No
hectic
odor
of
humans
disturbed
him
,
no
biting
stench
of
gunpowder
.
The
street
smelled
of
its
usual
smells
:
water
,
feces
,
rats
,
and
vegetable
matter
.
But
above
it
hovered
the
ribbon
,
delicate
and
clear
,
leading
Grenouille
on
.
After
a
few
steps
,
what
little
light
the
night
afforded
was
swallowed
by
the
tall
buildings
,
and
Grenouille
walked
on
in
darkness
.
He
did
not
need
to
see
.
The
scent
led
him
firmly
.
