Король расхитителей гробниц

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The house. She received nothing more than meaningless paper money, which was worthless two years later. 1797

When she was nearly ninety, she had lost everything she had accumulated through her hard work and extraordinary labor.

The property was his possession, and he lived in a furnished little room on Coral Street. By then, ten or twenty years later, Death...

She had just come over when chronic cancer gripped Mrs. Galar's throat, first robbing her of her appetite, then robbing her of...

Her voice was so weak that when she was taken to the chief hospital, she couldn't utter a word of protest. There, people...

The family arranged for her to sit in the hall where her husband had died, a hall filled with hundreds of terminally ill patients, and to sit with other...

Five completely unfamiliar elderly women slept in the same bed—they lay close together—and placed her on...

She was left there for three weeks, left to die in public. Afterwards, she was stuffed into a sack, the opening sewn shut.

At four in the morning, along with fifty other corpses, it was thrown onto a hearse. The hearse—a small bell kept ringing.

The faint sound reached the newly established Krama Cemetery, about a mile outside the city gate. People threw the bodies into the mass grave.

Then cover it with a thick layer of quicklime.

The year was 1799. God help her, she returned home and bid farewell to Grenouille in 1747.

The boy and our story on that day had no idea of the misfortune that would follow her. She may have already lost...

Her belief in justice caused her to lose the only meaning in life that she could understand.

Grenouille from his first glance at Grimaldi—no, from the first time he inhaled Grimaldi's scent.

He knew from his very breath that if he showed even the slightest sign of resistance, this man would kill him. The value of his life...

It's simply that the labor he can perform, the existence of his life, depends on Grimald's utilization of it. Therefore, Gray

Noye was always compliant and never attempted to resist. He uttered these words daily, channeling all his stubbornness and tenacity into his actions.

Hidden deep within his heart, he used only to overcome the freezing period with the attitude of a tick:

He tenaciously, contentedly, and unobtrusively grasped at the smallest, yet carefully tended, flame.

A ray of hope for life. He is now a model of obedience, wanting nothing and only desiring to work, willing to eat any meal.

He could make do with anything. Every night, he would bravely close the shop in a shed next to the factory, where the goods were stored.

Tools lay there, and raw animal hides with skulls hung from them. Here he slept, on the gleaming ground. He toiled all day, only…

Work must begin at dawn, eight hours in winter and fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen hours in summer: He brushed away the foul odor emanating from him.

The meat on the rotten animal hide was soaked in water, the hair was scraped off, and then it was sprayed with lime slurry to corrode, knead it thoroughly, and then coated with wood.

They shoveled wood, chopped logs, peeled bark from pear and yew trees, and went down into the choking, smoke-filled pit to do what the foreman instructed.

Layers of animal hides and tree bark were stacked, sprinkled with crushed gallnuts, and covered with yew branches and soil to conceal the horrible hides.

He covered it with bark. Years later, he dug the pit again to retrieve the leather that had already been processed.

If he didn't work with animal hides, he would fetch water. For months on end, he carried water up from the river, two buckets at a time.

Hundreds of buckets of water were carried every day for months on end, because the industry required large amounts of water for washing, soaking, boiling, and dyeing.

So there wasn't a single dry part of his body. Every night, his clothes were dripping wet, and his skin was icy cold.

It was soft and swollen from being soaked in water, like leather that had been soaked in water.

This kind of life was less like that of humans and more like that of animals. A year later, he contracted anthrax and...

A terrible occupational disease for leatherworkers, often fatal. Grimald had given up on him; he was searching for...

The replacement—by the way, he wasn't without regret, because there were people more content and capable than this Grenouille.

He had never seen a worker with such high efficiency. However, unexpectedly, Grenouille overcame the disease.

The illness left large, painful, dark scars only behind his ears, on his neck, and on both cheeks. These scars made him...

It was deformed, becoming uglier than before. But it also granted him resistance to anthrax—an immeasurable benefit!

From then on, even if his hands were cut and bleeding, he could still scrape the flesh from the most rotten animal hides without risking reinfection.

The danger of disease. Therefore, he was distinguished not only from apprentices and servants, but also from those who might succeed him.

No. Because he is no longer as easily replaceable as before, the value of his labor, that is, his...

His life's value increased. Suddenly, he no longer had to sleep on the bare ground, but could sleep in a shed.

He had a makeshift bed made of wooden planks, covered with straw, and his own quilt. No one locked him up anymore when he slept.

Come. The food is better than before; Grimaldi no longer treats him as just any animal, but as a useful home.

livestock.

When he was twelve, Grimaldi gave him half a day of free time on Sundays; when he was thirteen, every workday...

He had an hour after get off work in the evening to go out or do what he liked. He won because he was alive, he had...

A degree of freedom, enough for him to survive. The wintering season was over. Grenouille, this tick, was...

He sprang into action. He exhaled the morning air. He relentlessly hunted for scents. The world's largest scent hunting ground—Barcelona.

Licheng—is open to him.

This scent hunting ground is like a paradise. Just look at the area around Saint-Jacques and Saint-Oustachi in Boucherie.

The district was a paradise. In the alleys beside Avenue Saint-Denis and Avenue Saint-Martin, the population was dense, five or six stories high.

Tall buildings rise one after another, so people can't see the sky; the air on the ground is like the air in a damp ditch, thick and humid.

It reeks. Here, the smells of people and animals, food, disease, water, stones, ash, leather, soap, and new...

Fresh bread, eggs boiled in vinegar, noodles, polished brass, sage, beer, tears, oil

The smells of grease and dry, wet straw mingled together. Thousands upon thousands of smells formed an invisible porridge, this porridge...

It filled the gutters of every alley, rarely seeping onto the rooftops, and never dissipating on the ground. Living there...

The people inside couldn't detect any special smell in the porridge, because they believed it originated from their own bodies.

It permeates them; it is the air they breathe and depend on for survival, like a warm garment worn for a long time.

People can't smell the scent of this garment, nor can they feel it on their skin. But Grenouille could smell all of that.

It was like smelling it for the first time. He not only smelled the whole of the mixed scent, but also broke it down into the smallest and most distant details.

The distant part and the molecules. His keen nose could untangle the chaotic tangled threads of odors and foul smells into a coherent foundation.

The threads of this scent were so fine they could never be separated. To unravel them brought him immense joy.

Then he stopped, leaned against a wall of the house, or squeezed into a dark corner, and closed his eyes.

Its mouth was half-open, its nostrils bulging, like a ferocious fish in a dim, slowly flowing river. If

Finally, a gentle breeze blows the end of a thin thread to him, and he will hold on tightly, refusing to let go.

Then you will concentrate intently on smelling this scent, inhaling it continuously, keeping it in at all times.

e is already inside. This could be a familiar scent or a variation of that scent, or it could be a completely different one.

A new scent, one that was almost, or not at all, similar to anything he had ever smelled, let alone seen.

The scent of a place: for example, the scent of ironed silk, the scent of thyme tea, the scent of a piece of brocade wrapped with silver threads.

The smell—the smell of cork on a bottle of fine wine, the smell of a comb. Grenouille followed these...

Following the scent, with the passion and patience of an angler, he hunts them down and gathers them.

After inhaling the thick, porridge-like odor that filled the alley, he would run to a place where the smell was less intense and more ventilated.

To blend oneself with the wind, to unfold oneself, is almost like the evaporation of perfume: as if arriving in A...

Lang Square, where the scent of the night still lingers even during the day, unseen but very clear, as if...

There were still vendors bustling about, as if baskets of vegetables and eggs sold during the day, and buckets of [unclear - possibly referring to a type of produce], were still there.

Barrels of wine and vinegar, sacks of spices, potatoes and flour, crates of nails and screws, and workbenches for displaying meat.

Tables piled high with fabrics, tableware, shoe soles, and other general merchandise... this bustling scene extends even to the smallest detail.

The smaller details remained in the air. If one could say that Grenouille observed the entire city by smell.

He has a better grasp of the market than some people can see it, because he observes it after the fact, and therefore his understanding is superior.

His observation of the highest level: he regarded it as the essence, as the spirit of things from the past, a spirit unaffected by modernity.

Disturbed by familiar symbols; he felt there was a cacophony of noises, jarring sounds, and flesh-and-blood people.

People huddled together, vomiting.

Or he went to the place where his mother was beheaded, to the beach square, which looked like a giant tongue sticking into the river. He stopped there.

The boats, towed ashore or tied to wooden posts, smelled of coal, grain, hay, and ropes.

A breeze blew from the west; from the only forest path cut off by the river passing through the city, it carried...

Various scents emanated from the land, from the meadows near Neuilly, from the forests between Saint-Germain and Versailles, and from distant lands.

Cities, such as those from Rouen or Caen, sometimes even blown in from the sea. The sea, like a bulging sailboat, spreads...

The sea emits a scent, filled with water, salt, and the cold sunlight. The smell of the sea is ordinary, yet simultaneously magnificent.

Its unique and distinctive aroma is broken down into scents of fish, salt, water, seaweed, and freshness, among others. (Grenouille)

He was always hesitant. He preferred to let the scent of the sea blend together, preserving it completely in his memory, the whole...

He enjoyed the sea so much that he longed to one day possess its purity and freshness.

The pure, unadulterated scent, and in abundance, allowed him to revel. Later, he learned from novels...

The sea is so vast that when one sails on it, the land stretches as far as the eye can see. At that moment, nothing is more overwhelming than imagination.

It captivated him. He imagined himself sitting in a boat, perched high in a basket on the foremost mast.

It flew away through the endless scent of the sea. This scent wasn't really a scent at all, but rather a breath, an exhale—it was…

The end of all smells, and in the excitement, one melts into this breath. But this will never happen again.

This happened because Grenouille, standing on the Grave Place on the shore, repeatedly inhaled and exhaled through his nose...

A gentle sea breeze, and you'll never see the sea in your lifetime; the real sea, the vast ocean to the west, will never be the same.

Its smell is mixed.