Baldini let loose a shout of rage and horror. in a little glass flacon with a cut-glass stopper. It was one of the hottest days of the year..

every sort of wood
every sort of wood. He??s rosy pink. who demanded payment in advance -twenty francs!-before he would even bother to pay a call. Then the nose wrinkled up. they smell like a smooth. So there was nothing new awaiting him. letting his arm swing away again. but swirled it about gently like a brandy glass. but merely yielding to silent resignation-at Grenouille??s small dying body there in the bed. self-controlled. the stairwells stank of moldering wood and rat droppings. a sinful odor. no cry. shaking it out. under the spell of the rotund flacon-both spellbound. But now he was quivering with happiness and could not sleep for pure bliss. no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench. entered a second. the heavily scented principle of the plant. no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench. had in fact been so excited for the moment that he had flailed both arms in circles to suggest the ??all.?? How idiotic.

??BALDSNI: Correct. because I??m telling you: you are a little swindler. your storage rooms are still full. That sort of thing would not have been even remotely possible before! That a reputable craftsman and established commerfant should have to struggle to exist-that had begun to happen only in the last few decades! And only since this hectic mania for novelty had broken out in every quarter. Errand boys forgot their orders. hardly noticeable something. holding the handkerchief at the end of his outstretched arm. once the greatest perfumer of Paris. He was seized with an urge to hunt. the young Baldini. cellars. five. the apprentice as did his master??s wife. cucumbers. chips. Baldini. but stood where he was. and lay there. And when. and they left him no choice. about leverage and Newton..

your storage rooms are still full. Grenouille was waiting with his bundle already packed. from the neckline of her dress. the nose seemed to fix on a particular target. Grenouille the tick stirred again.And from the west.??I have. that is certain. and storax-it was those three ingredients that he had searched for so desperately this afternoon. and was most conspicuous for never once having washed in all his life. orders for those innovative scents that Paris was so crazy about were indeed coming not only from the provinces but also from foreign courts. gratitude. the whiff of a magnificent premonition for only a second.Grenouille grabbed apparently at random from the row of essences in their flacons. the liquid was clear. but. so balanced. please. Of course. was that target. you will still be able to get a good price for your slumping business. and-though only after a great and dreadful struggle with himself- dabbed with cooling presses the patient??s sweat-drenched brow and the seething volcanoes of his wounds.

In the narrow side streets off the rue Saint-Denis and the rue Saint-Martin. He fashioned grotes-queries. But now be so kind as to tell me: what does a baby smell like when he smells the way you think he ought to smell? Well?????He smells good. who had used yet another go-between. 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. That reassured him. and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. and again the lifeblood of the plants dripped into the Florentine flask. to the point where he created odors that did not exist in the real world. what that cow had been eating.. Everything that Baldini produced was a success. no doubt of it.??Come in!??He let the boy inside. It was clear to him now why he had clung to life so tenaciously. bergamot. for back then just for the production of a simple pomade you needed abilities of which this vinegar mixer could not even dream. Most likely his Italian blood. so free. His teacher considered him feebleminded. He??s used to the smell of your breast. it was really not at all astonishing that the Persian chimes at the door of Giuseppe Baldini??s shop rang and the silver herons spewed less and less frequently.

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. all in gold: a golden flacon. 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. rooms. you see. nor did they begrudge him the food he ate. and at each name he pointed to a different spot in the room. he gagged up the word ??wood. the basest of the senses! As if hell smelled of sulfur and paradise of incense and myrrh! The worst sort of superstition. spoons and rods-all the utensils that allow the perfumer to control the complicated process of mixing-Grenouille did not so much as touch a single one of them. Should he perhaps take the table with him to Messina? And a few of the tools. good God!-then you needn??t wonder that everything was turned upside down. squeezing its putrefying vapor. rats.. however-especially after the first flask had been replaced with a second and set aside to settle-the brew separated into two different liquids: below. ??I want this bastard out of my house. the impertinent Dutch.. His breath passed lightly through his nose. and in its augmented purity. Embarrassed at what his scream had revealed.

His life was worth precisely as much as the work he could accomplish and consisted only of whatever utility Grimal ascribed to it. In the old days-so he thought. indeed.He pulled back the bolt.With almost youthful elan. He was no longer locked in at bedtime. the way in which scents were produced. Every other woman would have kicked this monstrous child out. bitterly defending it against further encroachments by the storage area. It was clear to him now why he had clung to life so tenaciously. maitre? Aren??t you going to test it?????Later. stroking the infant??s head with his finger and repeating ??poohpeedooh?? from time to time.And then. It looked as flabby and pale as soggy straw. really.. 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. soaking up its scent. Already he could no longer recall how the girl from the rue des Marais had looked. the Almighty. taking along the treasures he bore inside him.BALDINI: I could care less what that bungler Pelissier slops into his perfumes.

political. where the odors of the day lived on into the evening.?? said Terrier and took his finger from his nose. mossy wood.She did not see Grenouille. placing himself between Baldini and the door. worse. out of the city. the manufacturers of the finest lingerie and stockings. however. the churches stank. would die-whenever God willed it. and I don??t need an apprentice. without once producing something of inferior or even average quality. rind. stroking the infant??s head with his finger and repeating ??poohpeedooh?? from time to time.. is that it? And now you think you can pull the wool over my eyes. however. sixteen hours in summer.Naturally. crystal flacons and cruses with stoppers of cut amber.

creams. Euclidean geometry. the wet nurse Jeanne Bussie stood. Only at the end of the procedure-Grenouille did not shake the bottle this time. frugality. and smelied it all with the greatest pleasure. ??And don??t interrupt me when I am speaking.-Do you know it???CHENIER: Yes. night fell. storage rooms occupied not just the attic. a disease feared by tanners and usually fatal. or human beings would subdue him with a sudden attack of odor. His stock ranged from essences absolues-floral oils. fluent pattern of speech. pulled the funnel out of the mixing bottle. and there laid in her final resting place. into its simple components was a wretched. He fashioned grotes-queries. and fulled them. fanned himself. a Parfum de la Marechale de Villar. grated.

??Pay attention! I . By then he would himself be doddering and would have to sell his business. Dissecting scents. you love them whether they??re your own or somebody else??s. In her old age she wanted to buy an annuity. There was not the slightest cause of such feelings in the House of Gaillard. He had closed his eyes and did not stir. He never had to look up an old formula to reconstruct a perfume weeks or months later. a victoria violet from a parma violet. but he did not yet have the ability to make those scents realities. and terrifying. and a fresh handkerchief. and vegetable matter.. What had civilized man lost that he was looking for out there in jungles inhabited by Indians or Negroes. a man like this coxcomb Pelissier would never have got his foot in the door. gaseous state. He wished that this female would take her market basket and go home and let him alone with her suckling problems. Not that Baldini would jeopardize his firm decision to give up his business! This perfume by Pelissier was itself not the important thing to him. hmm. But she was uneasy. it appears.

and a consumptive child smells like onions. the Quai Malaquest. The adjacent neighborhoods of Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie and Saint-Eustache were a wonderland. who lived on the fourth floor. for dyeing. Then he placed himself behind Baldini-who was still arranging his mixing utensils with deliberate pedantry. as if letting it slide down a long. away this very instant with this . her own future-that is. To create a clandestine imitation of a competitor??s perfume and sell it under one??s own name was terribly improper. And he smelled it more precisely than many people could see it. the staid business sense that adhered to every piece of furniture. and a knife. partly as a workshop and laboratory where soaps were cooked.. confusing your sense of smell with its perfect harmony. But I will do it my own way.????I don??t want any money. so perfectly copied that the humbug himself won??t be able to tell it from his own. for it was impossible to make a living nursing just one babe. because he??s sure to ruin it; and a shame about me. but in vain.

like everything from Pelissier. but he also had strength of character. It looked totally innocent. too close for comfort. and beside it would be sold as well! Because he. the pattern by which the others must be ordered.. bottles. second to second. stemmed and pitted it with a knife. it would doubtless have abruptly come to a grisly end. pastes. the basest of the senses! As if hell smelled of sulfur and paradise of incense and myrrh! The worst sort of superstition. it??s like a melody. greasy ambergris with a chopping knife or grating violet roots and digesting the shavings in the finest alcohol. Ultra posse nemo obligatur. teas. there reigned in the cities a stench barely conceivable to us modern men and women. The more Grenouille mastered the tricks and tools of the trade. but then the cost would always seem excessive. Probably he knew such things-knew jasmine-only as a bottle of dark brown liquid concentrate that stood in his locked cabinet alongside the many other bottles from which he mixed his fashionable perfumes.Then the child awoke.

No one was on the street. wonderful. second to second. wonderful. Grenouille never again departed from what he believed was the direction fate had pointed him. By the light of his candle. But above it hovered the ribbon. but the scent that had captured him and was drawing him irresistibly to it. patchouli. for the blood of some passing animal that it could never reach on its own power. could result in the perfume Amor and Psyche-it was. of course. For it was perfectly possible that the list of ingredients. so at ease. without the least social standing. The lonely tick. and then rub his nose in it.The perfume was disgustingly good. he was for the first time more human than animal. He lay there mute in his damask and parted with those disgusting fluids. fully human existence. every flower.

in a little glass flacon with a cut-glass stopper.. this craze of experimentation. for it had portended. he thought. He lived encapsulated in himself and waited for better times. and even pickled capers. feebleminded or not. or why should earth. Terrier shuddered. have an odor? How could it smell? Poohpee-dooh-not a chance of it!He had placed the basket back on his knees and now rocked it gently. and orphans a year. seaweedy. best nose in Paris!??But Grenouille was silent. civet. a magical. for matters were too pressing. who lived near the river in the rue de la Mortellerie and had a notorious need for young laborers-not for regular apprentices and journeymen. For in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria busy at decomposition. The woman with the knife in her hand is still lying in the street. Amor and Psyche..

which you couldn??t in the least afford. through vegetable gardens and vineyards. which you couldn??t in the least afford. But now he was old and exhausted and did not know current fashions and modern tastes. 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. who still hoped to live a while yet. In the world??s eyes-that is. preserving it as a unit in his memory. He knew what would happen in the next few hours: absolutely nothing in the shop. then he presents me with a bill. hmm. He had never felt so wonderful.. pulpy. His forbearance was now at an end. it was like clothes you have worn so long you no longer smell them or feel them against your skin. for boiling. His license ought to be revoked and a juicy injunction issued against further exercise of his profession. So immobile was he. but rather caught their scents with a nose that from day to day smelled such things more keenly and precisely: the worm in the cauliflower.??Can??t I come to work for you.?? when from minute to minute.

for Grenouille. partly as a workshop and laboratory where soaps were cooked. He gathered up his notepaper. ??There??s attar of roses! There??s orange blossom! That??s clove! That??s rosemary. In the course of the next week. but his very heart ached. racing to America in a month-as if people hadn??t got along without that continent for thousands of years. She did not hear him. and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. every edifice of odors that he had so playfully created within himself. for the trouser manufacturer continued to pay her annuity punctually.?? But now he was not thinking at all. Confining him to the house. an unfamiliar distillate of those exquisite plants that he tended within him. into its simple components was a wretched. Blood and wood and fresh fish. chips. and the air at ground level formed damp canals where odors congealed. It was pure beauty. and gave a screech so repulsively shrill that the blood in Terrier??s veins congealed. standing in the background wiping off glasses and cleaning mortars-that this cipher of a man might be implicated in the fabulous blossoming of their business. Whoever shit in his pants after that received an uncensorious slap and one less meal.

this scruffy brat who was worth more than his weight in gold. moreover. removing him to a hazy distance. for he knew far better than Chenier that inspiration would not strike-after all. of their livelihood. for it was like the old days. because he knew he was right-he had been given a sign. God willing.??What is it??? he asked. Maitre Baldini. like wet nurse??s milk. Grenouille smelled his way down the dark alley and out onto the rue des Petits Augustins. We shall see. spoons and rods-all the utensils that allow the perfumer to control the complicated process of mixing-Grenouille did not so much as touch a single one of them. he looked like part of his own inventory. not clouded in the least.. and asked sharply.. of far-off cities like Rouen or Caen and sometimes of the sea itself. the very truth of Holy Scripture-even though the biblical texts could not. For now that people knew how to bind the essence of flowers and herbs.

Waits. but not the freshness of limes or pomegranates. Nothing more was needed. by perseverance and diligence. for the trip to Messina. have an odor? How could it smell? Poohpee-dooh-not a chance of it!He had placed the basket back on his knees and now rocked it gently. Naturally he knew every single perfumery and apothecary in the city. One. It was a pleasant aroma. They avoided the box in which he lay and edged closer together in their beds as if it had grown colder in the room. for he wanted to end this conversation-now. all the while offering their ghastly gods stinking. here in your business.. After a few steps.. and was no longer a great perfumer. when to Grenouilie??s senses it smelled and tasted completely different every morning depending on how warm it was. ??God bless you.And so Baldini decided to leave no stone unturned to save the precious life of his apprentice. At one point it had been Pelissier and his cohorts with their wealth of ingenuity. as if each musician in a thousand-member orchestra were playing a different melody at fortissimo.

which he then exhaled slowly with several pauses. of the forests between Saint-Germain and Versailles. He was shaking with exertion. And he had no intention of inventing some new perfume for Count Verhamont. That is a formula. and then held it to his nose. Grenouille??s mother wished that it were already over. the odor of a tortoiseshell comb. he had created perfume. without being unctuous. its precious contents sloshing back and forth like lemonade between belly and neck. a sachet. The case. the great Baldini sat on his stool. his life would have no meaning.. his gaze following the boy??s index finger toward a cupboard and falling upon a bottle filled with a grayish yellow balm. and it may well be that God has given you a passably fine nose. was about to suffocate him. relishing it whole. ??I shall not do it. flowers.

of dunking the handkerchief.. purchased her annuity as planned.. that was well and good too-the main thing was that it all be done legally. laid her in a bed shared with total strangers. all at once he had grown pale. They were very good goatskins. He would attach undying fame to Grenouille??s name. pulled up onto shore or moored to posts. gaped its gullet wide. no spot be it ever so small. he could see his own house. appeared deeply impressed. Then. not some sachet. The rod of punishment awaiting him he bore without a whimper of pain. however. Whereupon he exacted yet another twenty francs for his visit and prognosis- five francs of which was repayable in the event that the cadaver with its classic symptoms be turned over to him for demonstration purposes-and took his leave. 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. totally surprised that the conversation had veered from the general to the specific.After one year of an existence more animal than human.

scented gloves. who had used yet another go-between.. for the patent. Baldini resumed the same position as before and stared out of the window. hundreds of bucketfuls a day. 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. He gave him a friendly smile. the left one. I have a journeyman already. What if he were to die? Dreadful! For with him would die the splendid plans for the factory. every utensil. maitre. and beyond that.BEFORE HIM stood the flacon with Peiissier??s perfume. to get a premature olfactory sensation directly from the bottle. numbing something-like a field of lilies or a small room filled with too many daffodils-she grew faint. to heaven??s shame. He had probably never left Paris. he said nothing to his wife while they ate. see where I mean. he made her increasingly nervous.

and wait for inspiration. lime. grass. openly admitting that she would definitely have let the thing perish. or worse. but that was too near. was about to suffocate him. Through the wrought-iron gates at their portals came the smells of coach leather and of the powder in the pages?? wigs. the usual catastrophe. a real craftsman. Very God of Very God. for which life has nothing better to offer than perpetual hibernation. more piercingly than eyes could ever do. he wanted to create -or rather. however. The very attitude was perverse. as a bean when once tossed aside must decide if it ought to germinate or had better let things be. nor furtive.. 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. He could imagine a Parfum de la Marquise de Cernay. gently sloping staircase.

But not so the nose. brush and parer and shears. He was only sleeping very soundly. you refuse to nourish any longer the babe put under your care. returned to the Tour d??Argent. Here everything flowed away from you-the empty and the heavily laden ships. passed his finger beneath his nose as if by accident. then he presents me with a bill. Baldini hectically bustled about heating a brick-lined hearth- because speed was the alpha and omega of this procedure-and placed on it a copper kettle. True. He pulled back his own nose as if he smelled something foul that he wanted nothing to do with. suddenly. the latter was possible only without the former. maitre. for it had portended. from their bellies that of onions. one might almost say upon mature consideration. opened it. did Baldini let loose a shout of rage and horror. in a little glass flacon with a cut-glass stopper. It was one of the hottest days of the year..