thought it over. You shall have the opportunity, now, this very moment, to prove your assertion. Your grandiose failure will also be an opportunity for you to learn the virtue of humility, which—although one may pardon the total lack of its development at your tender age—will be an absolute prerequisite for later advancement as a member of your guild and for your standing as a man, a man of honour, a dutiful subject and a good Christian. I am prepared to teach you this lesson at my own expense. For certain reasons, I am feeling generous this evening, and, who knows, perhaps the recollection of this scene will amuse me one day. But do not suppose that you can dupe me—Giuseppe Baldini’s nose is old, but it is still sharp, sharp enough immediately to recognize the slightest difference between your mixture and this product here.’ And at that he pulled the handkerchief drenched in ‘Amor and Psyche’ from his pocket and waved it under Grenouille’s nose. ‘Come closer, best nose in Paris! Come here to the table and show me what you can do. But be careful not to drop anything or knock anything over. Don’t touch anything yet. Let me provide some light first. We want to have lots of illumination for this little experiment, don’t we?’
And with that he took two candlesticks that stood at the end of the large oak table and lit them. He placed all three next to one another along the back, pushed the goatskins to one side, cleared the middle of the table. Then with a few composed yet rapid motions, he fetched from a small stand the utensils needed for the task—the big-bellied mixing bottle, the glass funnel, the pipette, the small and large measuring glasses—and placed them in proper order on the oaken surface.
Grenouille had meanwhile freed himself from the doorframe. Even while Baldini was making his pompous speech, the stiffness and cunning intensity had fallen away from him. He had heard only the approval, only the ‘yes’, with the inner jubilation of a child that has sulked its way to some permission granted and thumbs its nose at the limitations, conditions and moral admonitions tied to it. Standing there at his ease and letting the rest of Baldini’s oration flow by, he was for the first time more human than animal, because he knew that he had already conquered the man who had yielded to him.
While Baldini was still fussing with his candlesticks at the table, Grenouille had already slipped off into the darkness of the laboratory with its cupboards full of precious essences, oils and tinctures, and following his sure-scenting nose, grabbed each of the necessary bottles from the shelves. There were nine altogether: essence of orange blossom, lime oil, attars of rose and clove, extracts of jasmine, bergamot and rosemary, musk tincture and storax balm, all quickly plucked down and set at the ready on the edge of the table. The last item he lugged over was a demi-john full of high-proof rectified spirit. Then he placed himself behind Baldini—who was still arranging his mixing utensils with deliberate pedantry, moving this glass back a bit, that one over more to one side, so that everything would be in its old accustomed order and displayed to its best advantage in the candlelight—and waited, quivering with impatience, for the old man to get out of the way and make room for him.
‘There!’ Baldini said at last, stepping aside. ‘I’ve lined up everything you’ll require for—let us graciously call it—your “experiment”. Don’t break anything, don’t spill anything. Just remember: the liquids you are about to dabble with for the next five minutes are so precious and so rare that you will never again in all your life hold them in your hands in such concentrated form.’
‘How much of it shall I make for you, maître?’ Grenouille asked.
‘Make what…?’ said Baldini, who had not yet finished his speech.
‘How much of the perfume?’ rasped Grenouille. ‘How much of it do you want?
And with that he took two candlesticks that stood at the end of the large oak table and lit them. He placed all three next to one another along the back, pushed the goatskins to one side, cleared the middle of the table. Then with a few composed yet rapid motions, he fetched from a small stand the utensils needed for the task—the big-bellied mixing bottle, the glass funnel, the pipette, the small and large measuring glasses—and placed them in proper order on the oaken surface.
Grenouille had meanwhile freed himself from the doorframe. Even while Baldini was making his pompous speech, the stiffness and cunning intensity had fallen away from him. He had heard only the approval, only the ‘yes’, with the inner jubilation of a child that has sulked its way to some permission granted and thumbs its nose at the limitations, conditions and moral admonitions tied to it. Standing there at his ease and letting the rest of Baldini’s oration flow by, he was for the first time more human than animal, because he knew that he had already conquered the man who had yielded to him.
While Baldini was still fussing with his candlesticks at the table, Grenouille had already slipped off into the darkness of the laboratory with its cupboards full of precious essences, oils and tinctures, and following his sure-scenting nose, grabbed each of the necessary bottles from the shelves. There were nine altogether: essence of orange blossom, lime oil, attars of rose and clove, extracts of jasmine, bergamot and rosemary, musk tincture and storax balm, all quickly plucked down and set at the ready on the edge of the table. The last item he lugged over was a demi-john full of high-proof rectified spirit. Then he placed himself behind Baldini—who was still arranging his mixing utensils with deliberate pedantry, moving this glass back a bit, that one over more to one side, so that everything would be in its old accustomed order and displayed to its best advantage in the candlelight—and waited, quivering with impatience, for the old man to get out of the way and make room for him.
‘There!’ Baldini said at last, stepping aside. ‘I’ve lined up everything you’ll require for—let us graciously call it—your “experiment”. Don’t break anything, don’t spill anything. Just remember: the liquids you are about to dabble with for the next five minutes are so precious and so rare that you will never again in all your life hold them in your hands in such concentrated form.’
‘How much of it shall I make for you, maître?’ Grenouille asked.
‘Make what…?’ said Baldini, who had not yet finished his speech.
‘How much of the perfume?’ rasped Grenouille. ‘How much of it do you want?
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