Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 50

           Fromthereyoucouldseeoverthecitywall,outacrossthevalleysurroundingGrasse-inclearweatherprobablyasfarasthesea.Alightfog,orbetterahaze,hungnowoverthefields,andtheodorsthatcamefromthem-grass,broom,androse-seemedwashedclean,comfortablyplainandsimple.Grenouillecrossedthegardenandclimbedoverthewall.Outontheparadegroundshehadtofighthiswaythroughhumaneffluviabeforehereachedopencountry.Thewholeareaandtheslopeslookedlikeagigantic,debauchedarmycamp.Drunkenformsbythethousandslayallabout,exhaustedbythedissipationsoftheirnocturnalfestivities,manyofthemnaked,manyhalfexposed,halfcoveredbytheirclothes,whichtheyhadusedasasortofblankettocreepunder.Itstankofsourwine,ofbrandy,ofsweatandpiss,ofbabyshitandcharredmeat.Thecamp-fireswheretheyhadroasted,drunk,anddancedwerestillsmokinghereandthere.Nowandthenamurmurorasniggerwouldgurgleupfromthethousandsofsnores.Itwaspossiblethatafewpeoplewerestillawake,guzzlingawaythelastscrapsofconsciousnessfromtheirbrains.ButnoonesawGrenouille,whocarefullybutquicklyclimbedoverthescatteredbodiesasifmovingacrossaswamp.Andthosewhosawhimdidnotrecognizehim.Henolongerhadanyscent.Themiraclewasover.Oncehehadcrossedthegrounds,hedidnottaketheroadtowardGrenoble,northeonetoCabris,butwalkedstraightacrossthefieldstowardthewest,neveronceturningtolookback.Whenthesunrose,fatandyellowandscorchinghot,hehadlongsincevanished.

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