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And Baldini was carrying yet another plan under his heart, his favorite plan, a sort of counterplan to the factory in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, where his wares, though not mass produced, would be made available to anyone But for a selected nuhly placed clients, he wanted to create—or rather, have created—personal perfumes that would fit only their wearer, like tailored clothes, would be used only by the wearer, and would bear his or her illustrious naine a Parfum de la Marquise de Cernay, a Parfuuillon, and so on He dreamed of a Parfum de Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, even of a Parfuate with a holder of chased gold and, hidden on the inside of the base, the engraved words: “Giuseppe Baldini, Parfu’s nahts had Baldini’s ideas risen! And now Grenouille had fallen ill Even though Griht he rest in peace, had sworn there had never been anything wrong with hi, had even put the black plague behind hione and fallen ill, mortally ill What if he were to die? Dreadful! For with him would die the splendid plans for the factory, for the s’s perfume

And so Baldini decided to leave no stone unturned to save the precious life of his apprentice He ordered him moved from his bunk in the laboratory to a clean bed on the top floor He had the bed made up with damask He helped bear the patient up the narrow stairith his own hands, despite his unutterable disgust at the pustules and festering boils He ordered his wife to heat chicken broth and wine He sent for the hborhood, a certain Procope, who demanded payment in advance—twenty francs!—before he would even bother to pay a call

The doctor coers, took one look at Grenouille’s body, which truly looked as if it had been riddled with hundreds of bullets, and left the roo that his attendant always carried about with hian his report to Baldini, was quite clear What they had was a case of syphilitic s measles in stadio ulti could not be properly inserted into the deteriorating body, which was h the characteristic pestilential stench associated with the illness was not yet noticeable—an a detail and a minor curiosity from a strictly scientific point of view—there could not be the least doubt of the patient’s deht hours, as surely as his name was Doctor Procope Whereupon he exacted yet another twenty francs for his visit and prognosis—five francs of which was repayable in the event that the cadaver with its classic symptoms be turned over to him for demonstration purposes—and took his leave

Baldini was beside hiers, raging at his fate Once again, just before reaching his goal, his grand, very grand plans had been thwarted At one point it had been Pélissier and his cohorts with their wealth of ingenuity Noas this boy with his inexhaustible store of new scents, this scruffy brat orth old, who had decided now of all ti measles in stadio ultimo Now of all times! Why not two years from now? Why not one? By then he could have been plundered like a silver one ahead and died next year But no! He was dying now, God daht hours!

For a brief e to Notre-Daht a candle and plead with the Mother of God for Grenouille’s recovery But he let the idea go, for et paper and ink, then shooed his wife out of the sick-roo to keep watch himself Then he sat down in a chair next to the bed, his notepaper on his knees, the pen ith ink in his hand, and attempted to take Grenouille’s perfumatory confession For God’s sake, he dare not slip aithout a word, taking along the treasures he bore inside him Would he not in these last hours leave a testament behind in faithful hands, so that posterity would not be deprived of the finest scents of all time? He, Baldini, would faithfully administer that testament, the canon of for the fame to Grenouille’s na holy—lay the best of these scents at the feet of the king, in an agate flacon with gold chasing and the engraved dedication, “From Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, Parfumeur, Paris” So spoke—or better, whispered—Baldini into Grenouille’s ear, unre

But all in vain Grenouille yielded nothing except watery secretions and bloody pus He lay therefluids, but not with his treasures, his knowledge, not a single formula for a scent Baldini would have loved to throttle him, to club him to death, to beat those precious secrets out of that moribund body, had there been any chance of success … and had it not so blatantly contradicted his understanding of a Christian’s love for his neighbor

And so he went on purring and crooning in his sweetest tones, and coddled his patient, and—though only after a great and dreadful struggle with hi presses the patient’s sweat-drenched brow and the seething volcanoes of his wounds, and spooned wine into hisand all in vain In the gray of dawn he gave up He fell exhausted into an are, really, but nation—at Grenouille’s s body there in the bed, whoe anything else for himself, whose death he could only witness nu all his wealth with it into the depths

And then all at once the lips of the dying boy opened, and in a voice whose clarity and fir of his immediate demise, he spoke “Tell me, s besides pressing or distilling?”

Baldini, believing the voice had coination or from the next world, answered mechanically, “Yes, there are”

“What are they?” came the question from the bed And Baldini opened his tired eyes wide Grenouille lay therehis pillows Had the corpse spoken?

“What are they?” came the renewed question, and this time Baldini noticed Grenouille’s lips ht This is the end, this is the madness of fever or the throes of death And he stood up, went over to the bed, and bent down to the sick azed up at Baldini with the sa look that he had fixed on hi

“What are they?” he asked

Baldini felt a pang in his heart—he could not deny a dying man his last wish—and he answered, “There are three other ways, e à l’huile They are superior to distillation in several ways, and they are used for extraction of the finest of all scents: jase blossom”

“Where?” asked Grenouille

“In the south,” answered Baldini “Above all, in the town of Grasse”

“Good,” said Grenouille

And with that he closed his eyes Baldini raised hiathered up his notepaper, on which he had not written a single line, and blew out the candle Day was dawning already He was dead tired One ought to have sent for a priest, he thought Then he ht hand and left the room