Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 27

           Afterthebottleofhope,heuncorkedonefromtheyear1744,filledwiththewarmscentofthewoodoutsideMadameGaillard’shouse.Andafterthathedrankabottleofthescentofasummerevening,imbuedwithperfumeandheavywithblossoms,gleanedfromtheedgeofaparkinSaint-Germain-des-Pres,dated1753.Hewasnowscent-logged.Hisarmsandlegsgrewheavierandheavierastheypressedintothecushions.Hismindwaswonderfullyfogged.Butitwasnotyettheendofhisdebauch.Hiseyescouldreadnomore,true,thebookhadlongsincefallenfromhishand—buthedidnotwanttocallanendtotheeveningwithouthavingemptiedonelastbottle,themostsplendidofall:thescentofthegirlfromtheruedesMarais…Hedrankitreverentlyandhesatuprightonthesofatodoso-althoughthatwasdifficultandthepurplesalonwhirledandswayedwitheverymove.Likeaschoolboy,hiskneespressedtogether,hisfeetsidebyside,hislefthandrestingonhisleftthigh,thatwashowlittleGrenouilledrankthemostpreciousscentfromthecellarsofhisheart,glassafterglass,andgrewsadderandsadderashedrank.Heknewthathewasdrinkingtoomuch.Heknewthathecouldnothandlesomuchgoodscent.Andyethedranktillthebottlewasempty.Hewalkedalongthedarkpassagefromthestreetintotherearcourtyard.Hemadefortheglowoflight.Thegirlwassittingtherepittingyellowplums.

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