Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 27

           ItissorefreshinglygoodthatdearJean-Baptiste’seyesfillwithtearsofbliss,andheimmediatelypourshimselfasecondglass:ascentfromtheyear1752,sniffedupinspring,beforesunriseonthePont-Roya!,hisnosedirectedtothewest,fromwherealightbreezeboretheblendedodorsofseaandforestandatouchofthetarrysmellofthebargestiedupatthebank.ItwasthescentfromtheendofhisfirstnightspentroamingaboutPariswithoutGrimaPspermission.Itwasthefreshodoroftheapproachingday,ofthefirstdaybreakthathehadeverknowninfreedom.Thatodorhadbeenthepledgeoffreedom.Ithadbeenthepledgeofadifferentlife.TheodorofthatmorningwasforGrenouilletheodorofhope.Heguardeditcarefully.Andhedrankofitdaily.Oncehehademptiedthesecondglass,allhisnervousness,allhisdoubtandinsecurity,fellawayfromhim,andhewasfilledwithgloriouscontentment.Hepressedhisbackagainstthesoftcushionsofhissofa,openedabook,andbegantoreadfromhismemoirs.Hereadabouttheodorsofhischildhood,ofhisschooldays,abouttheodorsofthebroadstreetsandhiddennooksofthecity,abouthumanodors.Andapleasantshudderwashedoverhim,fortheodorshenowcalledupwereindeedthosethathedespised,thathehadexterminated.Withsickenedinterest,Grenouillereadfromthebookofrevoltingodors,andwhenhisdisgustoutweighedhisinterest,hesimplyslammedthebookshut,laiditaside,andpickedupanother.Allthewhilehedrankwithoutpausefromhisnoblescents.

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