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The
procedure
was
this
:
to
dip
the
handkerchief
in
perfume
,
pass
it
rapidly
under
his
nose
,
and
extract
from
the
fleeting
cloud
of
scent
one
or
another
of
its
ingredients
without
being
significantly
distracted
by
the
complex
blending
of
its
other
parts
;
then
,
holding
the
handkerchief
at
the
end
of
his
outstretched
arm
,
to
jot
down
the
name
of
the
ingredient
he
had
discovered
,
and
repeat
the
process
at
once
,
letting
the
handkerchief
flit
by
his
nose
,
snatching
at
the
next
fragment
of
scent
,
and
so
on
...
HE
WORKED
WITHOUT
pause
for
two
hours-with
increasingly
hectic
movements
,
increasingly
slipshod
scribblings
of
his
pen
on
the
paper
,
and
increasingly
large
doses
of
perfume
sprinkled
onto
his
handkerchief
and
held
to
his
nose.He
could
hardly
smell
anything
now
,
the
volatile
substances
he
was
inhaling
had
long
since
drugged
him
;
he
could
no
longer
recognize
what
he
thought
had
been
established
beyond
doubt
at
the
start
of
his
analysis
.
He
knew
that
it
was
pointless
to
continue
smelling
.
He
would
never
ascertain
the
ingredients
of
this
newfangled
perfume
,
certainly
not
today
,
nor
tomorrow
either
,
when
his
nose
would
have
recovered
,
God
willing
.
He
had
never
learned
fractionary
smelling
.
Dissecting
scents
,
fragmenting
a
unity
,
whether
well
or
not-so-well
blended
,
into
its
simple
components
was
a
wretched
,
loathsome
business
.
It
did
not
interest
him
.
He
did
not
want
to
continue.But
his
hand
automatically
kept
on
making
the
dainty
motion
,
practiced
a
thousand
times
over
,
of
dunking
the
handkerchief
,
shaking
it
out
,
and
whisking
it
rapidly
past
his
face
,
and
with
each
whisk
he
automatically
snapped
up
a
portion
of
scent-drenched
air
,
only
to
let
it
out
again
with
the
proper
exhalations
and
pauses
.
Until
finally
his
own
nose
liberated
him
from
the
torture
,
swelling
in
allergic
reaction
till
it
was
stopped
up
as
tight
as
if
plugged
with
wax
.
He
could
not
smell
a
thing
now
,
could
hardly
breathe
.
It
was
as
if
a
bad
cold
had
soldered
his
nose
shut
;
little
tears
gathered
in
the
corners
of
his
eyes
.
Thank
God
in
heaven
!
Now
he
could
quit
in
good
conscience
.
He
had
done
his
duty
,
to
the
best
of
his
abilities
,
according
to
all
the
rules
of
the
art
,
and
was
,
as
so
often
before
,
defeated
.
Ultra
posse
nemo
obligatur
.
Closing
time
.
Tomorrow
morning
he
would
send
off
to
Pelissi-er
's
for
a
large
bottle
of
Amor
and
Psyche
and
use
it
to
scent
the
Spanish
hide
for
Count
Verhamont
,
as
per
order
.
And
after
that
he
would
take
his
valise
,
full
of
old-fashioned
soaps
,
scent
bags
,
pomades
,
and
sachets
and
make
his
rounds
among
the
salons
of
doddering
countesses
.
And
one
day
the
last
doddering
countess
would
be
dead
,
and
with
her
his
last
customer
.
By
then
he
would
himself
be
doddering
and
would
have
to
sell
his
business
,
to
Pelissier
or
another
one
of
these
upstart
merchants-perhaps
he
would
get
a
few
thousand
livres
for
it
.
And
he
would
pack
one
or
two
bags
and
go
off
to
Italy
with
his
old
wife
,
if
she
was
not
dead
herself
by
then
.
And
if
he
survived
the
trip
,
he
would
buy
a
little
house
in
the
country
near
Messina
where
things
were
cheap
.
And
there
in
bitterest
poverty
he
,
Giuseppe
Baldini
,
once
the
greatest
perfumer
of
Paris
,
would
die-whenever
God
willed
it
.
And
that
was
well
and
good.He
stoppered
the
flacon
,
laid
down
his
pen
,
and
wiped
the
drenched
handkerchief
across
his
forehead
one
last
time
.
He
could
sense
the
cooling
effect
of
the
evaporating
alcohol
,
but
nothing
else
.
Then
the
sun
went
down.Baldini
stood
up
.
He
opened
the
jalousie
and
his
body
was
bathed
to
the
knees
in
the
sunset
,
caught
fire
like
a
burnt-out
torch
glimmering
low
.
He
saw
the
deep
red
rim
of
the
sun
behind
the
Louvre
and
the
softer
fire
across
the
slate
roofs
of
the
city
.
On
the
river
shining
like
gold
below
him
,
the
ships
had
disappeared
.
And
a
wind
must
have
come
up
,
for
gusts
were
serrating
the
surface
,
and
it
glittered
now
here
,
now
there
,
moving
ever
closer
,
as
if
a
giant
hand
were
scattering
millions
of
louis
d'or
over
the
water
.
For
a
moment
it
seemed
the
direction
of
the
river
had
changed
:
it
was
flowing
toward
Baldini
,
a
shimmering
flood
of
pure
gold.Baldini
's
eyes
were
moist
and
sad
.
He
stood
there
motionless
for
a
long
time
gazing
at
the
splendid
scene
.
Then
,
suddenly
,
he
flung
both
window
casements
wide
and
pitched
the
fiacon
with
Pelissier
's
perfume
away
in
a
high
arc
.
He
saw
it
splash
and
rend
the
glittering
carpet
of
water
for
an
instant.Fresh
air
streamed
into
the
room
.
Baldini
gulped
for
breath
and
noticed
that
the
swelling
in
his
nose
was
subsiding
.
Then
he
closed
the
window
.
At
almost
the
same
moment
,
night
fell
,
very
suddenly
.
The
view
of
a
glistening
golden
city
and
river
turned
into
a
rigid
,
ashen
gray
silhouette
.
Inside
the
room
,
all
at
once
it
was
dark
.
Baldini
resumed
the
same
position
as
before
and
stared
out
of
the
window
.
"
I
shall
not
send
anyone
to
Pelissier
's
in
the
morning
,
"
he
said
,
grasping
the
back
of
his
armchair
with
both
hands
.
"
I
shall
not
do
it
.
And
I
shall
not
make
my
tour
of
the
salons
either
.
Instead
,
I
shall
go
to
the
notary
tomorrow
morning
and
sell
my
house
and
my
business
.
That
is
what
I
shall
do
.
E
basta
!
"
The
expression
on
his
face
was
that
of
a
cheeky
young
boy
,
and
he
suddenly
felt
very
happy
.
He
was
once
again
the
old
,
the
young
Baldini
,
as
bold
and
determined
as
ever
to
contend
with
fate-even
if
contending
meant
a
retreat
in
this
case
.
And
what
if
it
did
!
There
was
nothing
else
to
do
.
These
were
stupid
times
,
and
they
left
him
no
choice
.
God
gives
good
times
and
bad
times
,
but
He
does
not
wish
us
to
bemoan
and
bewail
the
bad
times
,
but
to
prove
ourselves
men
.
And
He
had
given
His
sign
.
That
golden
,
blood-red
mirage
of
the
city
had
been
a
warning
:
act
now
,
Baldini
,
before
it
is
too
late
!
Your
house
still
stands
firm
,
your
storage
rooms
are
still
full
,
you
will
still
be
able
to
get
a
good
price
for
your
slumping
business
.
The
decisions
are
still
in
your
hands
.
To
grow
old
living
modestly
in
Messina
had
not
been
his
goal
in
life
,
true-but
it
was
more
honorable
and
pleasing
to
God
than
to
perish
in
splendor
in
Paris
.
Let
the
Brouets
,
Calteaus
,
and
Pelissiers
have
their
triumph
.
Giuseppe
Baldini
was
clearing
out
.
But
he
did
it
unbent
and
of
his
own
free
will!He
was
quite
proud
of
himself
now
.
And
his
mind
was
finally
at
peace
.
For
the
first
time
in
years
,
there
was
an
easing
in
his
back
of
the
subordinate
's
cramp
that
had
tensed
his
neck
and
given
an
increasingly
obsequious
hunch
to
his
shoulders
.
And
he
stood
up
straight
without
strain
,
relaxed
and
free
and
pleased
with
himself
.
His
breath
passed
lightly
through
his
nose
.
He
could
clearly
smell
the
scent
of
Amor
and
Psyche
that
reigned
in
the
room
,
but
he
did
not
let
it
affect
him
anymore
.
Baidini
had
changed
his
life
and
felt
wonderful
.
He
would
go
up
to
his
wife
now
and
inform
her
of
his
decision
,
and
then
he
would
make
a
pilgrimage
to
Notre-Dame
and
light
a
candle
thanking
God
for
His
gracious
prompting
and
for
having
endowed
him
,
Giuseppe
Baldini
,
with
such
unbelievable
strength
of
character.With
almost
youthful
elan
,
he
plopped
his
wig
onto
his
bald
head
,
slipped
into
his
blue
coat
,
grabbed
the
candlestick
from
the
desk
,
and
left
his
study
.
He
had
just
lit
the
tallow
candle
in
the
stairwell
to
light
his
way
up
to
his
living
quarters
when
he
heard
a
doorbell
ring
on
the
ground
floor
.
It
was
not
the
Persian
chimes
at
the
shop
door
,
but
the
shrill
ring
of
the
servants
'
entrance
,
a
repulsive
sound
that
had
always
annoyed
him
.
He
had
often
made
up
his
mind
to
have
the
thing
removed
and
replaced
with
a
more
pleasant
bell
,
but
then
the
cost
would
always
seem
excessive
.
The
thought
suddenly
occurred
to
him-and
he
giggled
as
it
did-that
it
made
no
difference
now
,
he
would
be
selling
the
obtrusive
doorbell
along
with
the
house
.
Let
his
successor
deal
with
the
vexation!The
bell
rang
shrilly
again
.
He
cocked
his
ear
for
sounds
below
.
Apparently
Chenier
had
already
left
the
shop
.
And
the
servant
girl
seemed
not
about
to
answer
it
either
.
So
Baldini
went
downstairs
to
open
the
door
himself.He
pulled
back
the
bolt
,
swung
the
heavy
door
open-and
saw
nothing
.
The
darkness
completely
swallowed
the
light
of
his
candle
.
Then
,
very
gradually
,
he
began
to
make
out
a
figure
,
a
child
or
a
half-grown
boy
carrying
something
over
his
arm
"
What
do
you
want
?
""
I
'm
from
Maitre
Grimal
,
I
'm
delivering
the
goatskins
,
"
said
the
figure
and
stepped
closer
and
held
out
to
him
a
stack
of
hides
hanging
from
his
cocked
arm
.
By
the
light
of
his
candle
,
Baldini
could
now
see
the
boy
's
face
and
his
nervous
,
searching
eyes
.
He
carried
himself
hunched
over
.
He
looked
as
if
he
were
hiding
behind
his
own
outstretched
arm
,
waiting
to
be
struck
a
blow
.
It
was
Grenouille
.
THE
GOATSKINS
for
the
Spanish
leather
!
Baldini
remembered
now
.
He
had
ordered
the
hides
from
Grimal
a
few
days
before
,
the
finest
,
softest
goatskin
to
be
used
as
a
blotter
for
Count
Verhamont
's
desk
,
fifteen
francs
apiece
.
But
he
really
did
not
need
them
anymore
and
could
spare
the
expense
.
On
the
other
hand
,
if
he
were
simply
to
send
the
boy
back
...
?
Who
knew-it
could
make
a
bad
impression
,
people
might
begin
to
talk
,
rumors
might
start
:
Baldini
is
getting
undependable
,
Baldini
is
n't
getting
any
orders
,
Baldini
ca
n't
pay
his
bills
...
and
that
would
not
be
good
;
no
,
no
,
because
something
like
that
was
likely
to
lower
the
selling
price
of
his
business
.
It
would
be
better
to
accept
these
useless
goatskins
.
No
one
needed
to
know
ahead
of
time
that
Giuseppe
Baldini
had
changed
his
life
.
"
Come
in
!
"
He
let
the
boy
inside
,
and
they
walked
across
to
the
shop
,
Baldini
leading
with
the
candle
,
Grenouille
behind
him
with
the
hides
.
It
was
the
first
time
Grenouille
had
ever
been
in
a
perfumery
,
a
place
in
which
odors
are
not
accessories
but
stand
unabashedly
at
the
center
of
interest
.
Naturally
he
knew
every
single
perfumery
and
apothecary
in
the
city
,
had
stood
for
nights
on
end
at
their
shop
windows
,
his
nose
pressed
to
the
cracks
of
their
doors
.
He
knew
every
single
odor
handled
here
and
had
often
merged
them
in
his
innermost
thoughts
to
create
the
most
splendid
perfumes
.
So
there
was
nothing
new
awaiting
him
.
And
yet
,
just
as
a
musically
gifted
child
burns
to
see
an
orchestra
up
close
or
to
climb
into
the
church
choir
where
the
organ
keyboard
lies
hidden
,
Grenouille
burned
to
see
a
perfumery
from
the
inside
;
and
when
he
had
heard
that
leather
was
to
be
delivered
to
Baldini
,
he
had
done
all
he
could
to
make
sure
that
he
would
be
the
one
to
deliver
it.And
here
he
stood
in
Baldini
's
shop
,
on
the
one
spot
in
Paris
with
the
greatest
number
of
professional
scents
assembled
in
one
small
space
.
He
could
not
see
much
in
the
fleeting
light
of
the
candle
,
only
brief
glimpses
of
the
shadows
thrown
by
the
counter
with
its
scales
,
the
two
herons
above
the
vessel
,
an
armchair
for
the
customers
,
the
dark
cupboards
along
the
walls
,
the
brief
flash
of
bronze
utensils
and
white
labels
on
bottles
and
crucibles
;
nor
could
he
smell
anything
beyond
what
he
could
already
smell
from
the
street
.
But
he
at
once
felt
the
seriousness
that
reigned
in
these
rooms
,
you
might
almost
call
it
a
holy
seriousness
,
if
the
word
"
holy
"
had
held
any
meaning
whatever
for
Grenouille
;
for
he
could
feel
the
cold
seriousness
,
the
craftsmanlike
sobriety
,
the
staid
business
sense
that
adhered
to
every
piece
of
furniture
,
every
utensil
,
to
tubs
,
bottles
,
and
pots
.
And
as
he
walked
behind
Baldini
,
in
Baldini
's
shadow-for
Baldini
did
not
take
the
trouble
to
light
his
way-he
was
overcome
by
the
idea
that
he
belonged
here
and
nowhere
else
,
that
he
would
stay
here
,
that
from
here
he
would
shake
the
world
from
its
foundations.The
idea
was
,
of
course
,
one
of
perfectly
grotesque
immodesty
.
There
was
nothing
,
absolutely
nothing
,
that
could
justify
a
stray
tanner
's
helper
of
dubious
origin
,
without
connections
or
protection
,
without
the
least
social
standing
,
to
hope
that
he
would
get
so
much
as
a
toehold
in
the
most
renowned
perfume
shop
in
Paris-all
the
less
so
,
since
we
know
that
the
decision
had
been
made
to
dissolve
the
business
.
But
what
had
formed
in
Grenouille
's
immodest
thoughts
was
not
,
after
all
,
a
matter
of
hope
,
but
of
certainty
.
He
knew
that
the
only
reason
he
would
leave
this
shop
would
be
to
fetch
his
clothes
from
Grimal
's
,
and
then
never
again
.
The
tick
had
scented
blood
.
It
had
been
dormant
for
years
,
encapsulated
,
and
had
waited
.
Now
it
let
itself
drop
,
for
better
or
for
worse
,
entirely
without
hope
.
And
that
was
why
he
was
so
certain.They
had
crossed
through
the
shop
.
Baldini
opened
the
back
room
that
faced
the
river
and
served
partly
as
a
storeroom
,
partly
as
a
workshop
and
laboratory
where
soaps
were
cooked
,
pomades
stirred
,
and
toilet
waters
blended
in
big-bellied
bottles
.
"
There
!
"
he
said
,
pointing
to
a
large
table
in
front
of
the
window
,
"
lay
them
there
!
"
Grenouille
stepped
out
from
Baldini
's
shadow
,
laid
the
leather
on
the
table
,
but
quickly
jumped
back
again
,
placing
himself
between
Baldini
and
the
door
.
Baldini
stood
there
for
a
while
.
He
held
the
candle
to
one
side
to
prevent
the
wax
from
dripping
on
the
table
and
stroked
the
smooth
surface
of
the
skins
with
the
back
of
his
fingers
.
Then
he
pulled
back
the
top
one
and
ran
his
hand
across
the
velvety
reverse
side
,
rough
and
yet
soft
at
the
same
time
.
They
were
very
good
goatskins
.
Just
made
for
Spanish
leather
.
