Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

           Hadthecorpsespoken?“Whatarethey?”cametherenewedquestion,andthistimeBaldininoticedGrenouille’slipsmove.It’sovernow,hethought.Thisistheend,thisisthemadnessoffeverorthethroesofdeath.Andhestoodup,wentovertothebed,andbentdowntothesickman.HiseyeswereopenandhegazedupatBaldiniwiththesamestrange,lurkinglookthathehadfixedonhimattheirfirstmeeting.“Whatarethey?”heasked.Baldinifeltapanginhisheart-hecouldnotdenyadyingmanhislastwish-andheanswered,“Therearethreeotherways,myson:enfleurageitchaud,enfleurageafroid,andenfleurageaI’huile.Theyaresuperiortodistillationinseveralways,andtheyareusedforextractionofthefinestofallscents:jasmine,rose,andorangeblossom.”“Where?”askedGrenouille.“Inthesouth,”answeredBaldini.“Aboveall,inthetownofGrasse.”“Good,”saidGrenouille.Andwiththatheclosedhiseyes.Baldiniraisedhimselfupslowly.Hewasverydepressed.Hegathereduphisnotepaper,onwhichhehadnotwrittenasingleline,andblewoutthecandle.Daywasdawningalready.Hewasdeadtired.Oneoughttohavesentforapriest,hethought.Thenhemadeahastysignofthecrosswithhisrighthandandlefttheroom.Grenouillewas,however,anythingbutdead.Hewasonlysleepingverysoundly,deepindreams,suckingfluidsbackintohimself.Theblisterswerealreadybeginningtodryoutonhisskin,thecratersofpushadbeguntodrain,thewoundstoclose.Withinaweekhewaswellagain.