Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 27

           Farinthedistance,therocketsandpetardsofthefireworkswerebooming…Heputtheglassdownandsatthereforawhileyet,severalminutes,stiffwithsentimentalityandguzzling,untilthelastaftertastehadvanishedfromhispalate.Hestaredvacantlyahead.Hisheadwassuddenlyasemptyasthebottle.Thenhetoppledsidewaysontothepurplesofa,andfromonemomenttothenextsankintoanumbedsleep.Atthesametime,theotherGrenouillefellasleeponhishorseblanket.AndhissleepwasjustasfathomlessasthatoftheinnermostGrenouille,fortheHerculeandeedsandexcessesoftheonehadmorethanexhaustedtheother-theywere,afterall,oneandthesameperson.Whenheawoke,however,hedidnotawakeninthepurplesalonofhispurplecastlebehindthesevenwalls,noruponthevernalfieldsofscentwithinhissoul,butmostdecidedlyinhisstonydungeonattheendofatunnel,onhardground,inthedark.Andhewasnauseatedwithhungerandthirst,andaschilledandmiserableasadrunkardafteranightofcarousing.Hecreptonallfoursoutofhistunnel.Outsideitwouldbesometimeofdayoranother,usuallytowardthebeginningorendofnight;butevenatmidnight,thebrightnessofthestarlightprickedhiseyeslikeneedles.Theairseemeddustytohim,acrid,searinghislungs;thelandscapewasbrittle;hebumpedagainstthestones.Andeventhemostdelicateodorscamesharpandcausticintoanoseunaccustomedtotheworld.Grenouillethetickhadgrownastouchyasahermitcrabthathasleftitsshelltowandernakedthroughthesea

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