Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

Chapter 8

           Fiftyyardsfarther,heturnedofftotherightuptheruedesMarais,anarrowalleyhardlyaspanwideanddarkerstill-ifthatwaspossible.Strangelyenough,thescentwasnotmuchstronger.Itwasonlypurer,andinitsaugmentedpurity,ittookonanevengreaterpowerofattraction.Grenouillewalkedwithnowillofhisown.Atonepoint,thescentpulledhimstronglytotheright,straightthroughwhatseemedtobeawall.Alowentrywayopenedup,leadingintoabackcourtyard.Grenouillemovedalongthepassagelikeasomnambulist,movedacrossthecourtyard,turnedacorner,enteredasecond,smallercourtyard,andherefinallytherewaslight-aspaceofonlyafewsquarefeet.Awoodenroofhungoutfromthewall.Beneathit,atable,acandlestuckatopit.Agirlwassittingatthetablecleaningyellowplums.Withherlefthand,shetookthefruitfromabasket,stemmedandpitteditwithaknife,anddroppeditintoabucket.Shemighthavebeenthirteen,fourteenyearsold.Gre-nouillestoodstill.Herecognizedatoncethesourceofthescentthathehadfollowedfromhalfamileawayontheotherbankoftheriver:notthissqualidcourtyard,nottheplums.Thesourcewasthegirl.Foramomenthewassoconfusedthatheactuallythoughthehadneverinallhislifeseenanythingsobeautifulasthisgirl-althoughheonlycaughtherfrombehindinsilhouetteagainstthecandlelight.Hemeant,ofcourse,hehadneversmelledanythingsobeautiful.

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