Парфюмер. История одного убийцы

           Inthreeshort,jerkytugs,hesnatchedupthescentasifitwereapowder,immediatelyblewitoutagain,fannedhimself,tookanothersniffinwaltztime,andfinallydrewonelong,deepbreath,whichhethenexhaledslowlywithseveralpauses,asiflettingitslidedownalong,gentlyslopingstaircase.Hetossedthehandkerchiefontohisdeskandfellbackintohisarmchair.Theperfumewasdisgustinglygood.ThatmiserablePelissierwasunfortunatelyavirtuoso.Amaster,toheaven’sshame,evenifhehadneverlearnedonethingathousandtimesovertBaldiniwishedhehadcreatedithimself,thisAmorandPsyche.Therewasnothingcommonaboutit.Anabsoluteclassic-fullandharmonious.Andforallthat,fascinatinglynew.Itwasfresh,butnotfrenetic.Itwasfloral,withoutbeingunctuous.Itpossesseddepth,asplendid,abiding,voluptuous,richbrowndepth-andyetwasnotintheleastexcessiveorbombastic.Baldinistoodupalmostinreverenceandheldthehandkerchiefunderhisnoseonceagain.“Wonderful,wonderful…”hemurmured,sniffinggreedily.“Ithasacheerfulcharacter,it’scharming,it’slikeamelody,putsyouinagoodmoodatonce…Whatnonsense,agoodmood!”Andheflungthehandkerchiefbackontohisdeskinanger,turnedaway,andwalkedtothefarthestcorneroftheroom,asifashamedofhisenthusiasm.Ridiculous!Lettinghimselfbesweptupinsucheulogies-”likeamelody,cheerful,wonderful,goodmood.”Howidiotic.Childishlyidiotic.Amoment’simpression.Anoldweakness.Amatteroftemperament.MostlikelyhisItalianblood.