Original subtitles

English subs for a YIFY brrip Perfume.The.Story.Of.A.Murderer.2006.720p.x264.YIFY

Quick.

We can't hold them back much longer.

Hurry.

- Come on! - Get up!

Quick!

Faster!

Open the doors. Come on, quickly!

Just read them the sentence.

The sentence of the court is that in two days hence

the perfumer journeyman Jean-Baptiste Grenouille

shall be bound to a wooden cross

with his face raised toward heaven.

And whilst still alive

be dealt twelve blows with an iron rod

breaking the joints of his arms,

his shoulders,

his hips,

his legs.

He shall then be raised up to hang until dead

and all customary acts of mercy

are expressly forbidden the executioner.

In 18th-century France,

there lived a man who was one of the most gifted

and notorious personages of his time.

His name was Jean-Baptiste Grenouille,

and if his name has been forgotten today, it is

for the reason that his ambition was restricted to a domain

that leaves no trace in history:

To the fleeting realm of scent.

In the period of which we speak,

there reigned in the cities a stench

barely conceivable to us modern men and women.

Naturally, the stench was foulest in Paris,

for Paris was the largest city in Europe.

And nowhere in Paris was that stench more profoundly repugnant

than in the city's fish market.

Here we are. I'll get another box.

It was here, then, on the most putrid spot in the whole kingdom,

that Jean-Baptiste Grenouille

was born on the 17th of July, 1738.

It was his mother's fifth birth.

She'd delivered them all here under her fishstand,

and all had been stillbirths, or semi-stillbirths,

You all right?

And the whole mess was shoveled with the fishguts into the river.

It would be much the same today

but then,

Jean-Baptiste chose differently.

What's that noise?

- It's a baby. - What's going on here?

It's a newborn.

Where's its mother?

She was just here.

She tried to kill it. Her own child.

She tried to kill her baby!

There! There she is!

Stop! Stop where you are!

Murderer!

Thus, the first sound to escape Grenouille's lips

sent his mother to the gallows

and Jean-Baptiste, by official order,

to the orphanage of Madame Gaillard.

How many today?

Four. Well, three and a half.

As usual, more dead than alive.

Just take the money and sign.

Make room.

- Where? - Move!

Go on, now.

Is it dead?

That's not staying in my bed.

- Let's throw it out, then. - What if it screams?

Let's just kill it.

Harder! Push!

What are you doing?

For Mme Gaillard, Grenouille was a source of income, like any other.

The children, however, sensed at once

that there was something different about him.

By the age of five, Jean-Baptiste still could not talk.

But he was born with a talent that made him unique among mankind.

It was not that the other children hated him,

they felt unnerved by him.

Increasingly he became aware that his phenomenal sense of smell

was a gift that had been given to him, and him alone.

When Jean-Baptiste did finally learn to speak

he soon found that everyday language proved inadequate

for all the olfactory experiences accumulating within himself.

Wood.

Warm wood.

Grass.

Wet grass.

Stones.

Warm stones.

Water.

Cold water.

Frog.

Wet stones.

Big, wet frog stones.

Something.

Something.

Something.

By 13, Mme Gaillard no longer had room for Jean-Baptiste

and therefore decided to sell him.

Come on.

Ten francs.

From his first breath of the odor enveloping this man...

Seven, and not one sou more.

... Grenouille knew that his life in Grimal's tannery

would be worth precisely as much as the work he could accomplish.

Unfortunately for Madame Gaillard,

the bargain was short-lived.

Life expectancy in the tannery was a mere five years

but Jean-Baptiste proved to be as tough as a resilient bacterium.

He adjusted to his new fate

and became a paragon of docility and diligence.

Slaved 15, 16 hours a day, summer and winter.

Gradually he became aware of a world beyond the tannery,

where a Utopia of unexplored smells lay in store for him.

Grenouille!

Come with us. I'm taking you to town for delivery.

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille had triumphed.

He was alive

and at last he was in his element.

He was not choosy.

He did not differentiate between what are good smells from bad,

at least not yet.

He was very greedy.

The goal was to possess everything the world had to offer in odors.

His only condition being, that they were new ones.

Thousands upon thousands of odors formed an invisible gruel

which he dissected into its most remote parts and pieces.

Grenouille!

Come on!

Get your ass over here!

He needs two dozen skins by next week. Can you do that?

- Yeah. Yeah. - Yeah, come with me.

What is it called?

"Amor and Psyche", madame. My latest creation.

May I try it?

If you'll allow me, mademoiselle.

Sheer heaven!

Monsieur Pelissier, you are truly an artiste.

Please, take them. I've got far too many.

What do you want?

Want to buy some?

Two for a sou.

Next time you run off like that, I'll kill you!

That night, he could not sleep.

The intoxicating power of the girl's scent made it clear to him

why he'd come to his own life so tenaciously, so savagely.

The purpose of his miserable existence had a higher destiny.

He would learn how to preserve scent

so that never again would he lose such sublime beauty.

There were about a dozen perfumers in Paris in those days.

One of them, the once-celebrated Italian perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini,

had set up shop in the center of the bridge called Pont au Change

on his arrival in Paris over thirty years ago.

To be sure, at one time in his youth, Baldini had created

several truly great perfumes, to which he owed his fortune.

But now Baldini was

out of touch, out of fashion,

and spent his days waiting for customers that no longer came.

- Ch�nier! There you are! - Monsieur Baldini.

Put on your wig.

Put on your wig!

You going out?

I wish to retire to my study for a few hours

and do not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.

Will you be creating a new perfume, Monsieur Baldini?

Correct. For Count Verhamont.

He has asked for something like... I think he said it was called

Amor and Psyche from that swindler in the Rue Saint Andr� des Arts.

Pelissier?

Pelissier, that's him.

Amor and Psyche!

Do you know it?

Oh, yes. You can smell it everywhere these days, monsieur.

On every street corner.

In fact, I just purchased you a sample.

In case you wanted to test it.

What on earth makes you think I'd be interested in testing it?

You're right. It's nothing special.

Actually it's a very common scent.

I believe the head chord contains lime oil.

Really? And the heart chord?

Orange blossom, I believe.

And civet in the base chord,

but, you know, I cannot say for sure.

Well, I couldn't care less what that bungler Pelissier

- slops into his perfumes. - Naturally not, monsieur.

And I am thinking of creating something for Count Verhamont

that will cause a veritable sensation.

I'm sure it will, Monsieur Baldini.

Take charge of the shop, Ch�nier, and don't let anyone come near me.

Inspiration requires peace and tranquility.

Is there anything else you need?

Inspiration, perhaps.

Ah, my Giuseppe.

You are still the great perfumer Baldini.

Wonderful.

He did it again.

Lime oil.

Orange blossom,

to be sure.

And a hint of cloves, perhaps.

No.

Or could be cinnamon?

It's gone.

Cinnamon.

It's not cinnamon.

Cloves.

No.

Musk?

No.

Who's there?

I'm from Grimal's tannery.

I've got the goatskins you ordered.

Follow me.

This way.

There.

Lay them there.

Tell your master that the skins are fine.

I'll come by in the next few days and pay for them.

Yes, Monsieur.

You want to make this leather smell good, don't you?

Why, of course and so it shall.

With Amor & Psyche by Pelissier?

Whatever gave you the absurd idea I would use someone else's perfume?

It's all over you.

It's on your forehead, your nose, your hands...

It's bad, Amor & Psyche is, Master.

There's too much rosemary in it.

And too much of...

that and that.

Bergamot and Patchouli?

Pat...?

Patchouli.

Patchouli.

What else?

That and that.

That and that.

Orange blossom,

lime...

- Rosemary. - Musk.

And cloves?

And this.

- Storax? - That's in it too.

- Storax. - Storax.

You have, it appears, a fine nose, young man.

My nose knows all the smells in the world.

It's the best nose in Paris, only I don't know the names.

I need to learn the names, learn them all...

No, no, no!

You dont interrupt me when I'm speaking.

You are both impertinent and insolent.

Even I don't know every scent.

I've, of course, known for some time the ingredients of Amor & Psyche.

But all it needs to find that out is a passably fine nose, nothing else.

But it needs the craft of a true perfumer

to detect the exact formula,

which notes, which chords,

and in what precise measurements.

Could you tell me the exact formula of Amor & Psyche?

Best-nose-in-Paris!

Speak up!

You see, you can't. Can you?

And I'll tell you why.

Because talent means next to nothing,

while experience acquired

in humility and hard work means everything.

I don't know what a formula is,

but I can make Amor & Psyche for you now.

And you think ljust let you slop around in my laboratory

with essential oils that are worth a fortune?

You?

Yes.

Now pay attention!

What is your name, anyway?

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.

Very well, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille,

you shall have the opportunity now to prove your assertion.

Your grandiose failure will also be an opportunity for you

to learn the virtue of humility.

- How much do you want me to make? - How much of what...?

How much Amor & Psyche do you want?

Shall I fill this flask?

No! You shall not!

You may fill this one.

Yes, Master.

But, Master Baldini...

You must let me do it in my own way.

As you please.

No!

Don't drop it. That's pure alcohol. You want to blow up the building?

You have to measure it first!

Stop, stop it!

That's enough!

You know nothing!

Essential oils are always to be mixed first,

then the alcohol added

and never ever is perfume to be shaken like that!

I must have been insane to listen to your asinine gibberish!

It's all done.

This is Amor & Psyche!

But it's not a good perfume, Master.

If you let me again, Master, I'll make it more better.

Now it's a really good perfume.

Don't you want to smell it, Master?

I'm not in the mood to test it now.

I have other things on my mind. Go now.

- But, Master... - Go! Now!

Can I come to work for you, master? Can I?

Let me think about it.

Master!

I have to learn how to keep smell!

What?

Can you teach me that?

I shall have to think about it. Now, go.

I love you.

I'll give you 50 francs for him.

Grenouille!

Grimal's transaction

had a profound effect on all three parties.

Not least upon Monsieur Grimal himself.

As for Giuseppe Baldini, the acquisition of Grenouille

miraculously transformed his dwindling business

even surpassing its former glory.

While at last, for Jean-Baptiste,

the mysterious secrets of the perfumer's craft

began to unfold.

Now, pay careful attention to what I tell you.

Just like a musical chord, a perfume chord contains

four essences

or notes, carefully selected for their harmonic affinity.

Each perfume contains three chords:

The head, the heart and the base,

necessitating twelve notes in all.

The head chord contains

the first impression, lasting a few minutes

before giving way to the heart chord,

the theme of the perfume, lasting several hours.

Finally, the base chord,

the trail of the perfume, lasting several days.

Mind you, the ancient Egyptians believed that one can only create

a truly original perfume by adding an extra note,

one final essence that will ring out

and dominate the others.

Legend has it that an amphora was once found in a pharaoh's tomb

and when it was opened a perfume was released.

After all those thousands of years,

a perfume of such subtle beauty and yet such power,

that for one single moment

every person on earth believed they were in paradise.

Twelve essences could be identified,

but the 13th,

the vital one,

could never be determined.

Why not?

Why not? What do you mean, why not?

Because it's a legend, numbskull!

What's a legend?

Never mind.

Jean-Baptiste.

Jean-Baptiste?

What's the matter?

Master,

I have to learn how to capture scent.

What are you talking about?

I have to learn how to capture scent

and reprise it forever.

You mean, preserve.

You have to teach me that.

All right. Calm down, my boy.

Calm down.

We have work to do.

"The soul of beings is their scent."

You said that, master.

Did I?

I will make you as many perfumes as you want

but you have to teach me

how to capture the smell of all things.

Can you do that?

Well, naturally.

Then teach me everything you know

and I'll make you the best perfume in the whole world.

Imagine, Jean-Baptiste,

ten thousand roses to produce

one single ounce of essential oil.

Now, keep the air flowing or the bottom petals will begin to stew

while I set up the alembic. And take care not to damage them.

We have to let them go to their deaths with their scent intact.

Perfect.

Now, help me with the Moor's head.

Temperature is vital.

When the quicksilver is here, the heat is precisely correct

and the oil will gradually rise.

Note this mechanism is a remarkable invention of my own devising.

You will observe how cold water

is pumped through here

allowing the essence to condense here

until it finally appears

here.

Of course, out on the hillside above Grasse

we had only to bellow pure, fresh air.

Ah, Grasse. What a town.

The Rome of scents.

The Promised Land of perfume.

No man can rightly call himself a perfumer

unless he has proved his worth in that hallowed place.

Not to worry. Happens all the time.

To Grasse.

Master.

Look.

The very soul of the rose.

Jean-Baptiste.

What's wrong?

Jean-Baptiste.

What have you done?

- You lied. - What?

You lied to me.

How dare you talk to me like that.

You said I could capture the scent of anything.

And so you can.

What do you smell?

What do you smell?

Nothing.

What were you expecting to smell?

Glass.

But glass doesn't smell.

Course it does. What's this?

I don't smell a thing.

It should smell like copper!

Enough!

You were trying to distill the smell of copper?

Iron? Glass? Copper?

What else did you try?

No!

Have you gone completely insane?

You told me I had to experiment.

Experiment? Experiment?

But not with the cat.

What kind of a human being are you?

Don't you know anything?

You can no more distill the scent of a cat

than you can distill the scent of you or me.

I can't?

Of course not!

He is in stadio ultimo.

- What? - He's dying.

Is there nothing you can do?

- I fear not. - No! He cannot die.

Well, my fee is 50 francs.

50 francs?

You charlatan! You can't even name the disease!

No! Jean-Baptiste!

You cannot do this to me.

Not now. Not yet.

Is there

any other way

to preserve smell besides distill it?

Jean-Baptiste?

Is there, master?

Well, yes, I believe there is.

What is it?

It is known as the mysterious art of enfleurage.

Can you teach me?

Not even I am intimate with its secrets.

But could I learn it in Grasse?

- Well... - Could I?

Where else but in Grasse?

Within a week Grenouille was well again,

but to travel to Grasse to find ajob he needed journey papers.

Baldini agreed to provide them

on condition that Grenouille left him

not less than one hundred formulas for new perfumes.

Grenouille did not mind. He could have given him a thousand.

The morning of Grenouille's departure, Baldini was pleased.

At last, he felt rewarded for his many years of hard work.

He could not remember a happier day.

Deeply satisfied, he went back to sleep

and awoke no more in this life.

With every step he took from the city, the happier he felt.

The air above him grew clearer, purer, cleaner,

and at last he was able to breathe freely.

There were two ways to reach Grasse.

The first followed the winding roads through the villages

while the second lead across the mountains, down into Provence.

The choice was quite easy.

Thus his nose led him ever higher,

ever further from mankind,

more towards the magnetic pole of the greatest possible solitude.

Grenouille needed a moment to believe that he had actually found

a spot on earth where scent was almost absent.

Spread all around lay nothing but the tranquil scent of dead stone.

There was something sacred about this place.

No longer distracted by anything external,

he was finally able to bask in his own existence

and found it splendid.

After a while, he almost forgot his plans and obsessions

and, indeed, might have done so altogether.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

There were a thousand smells in his clothes.

The smell of sand, stone, moss.

Even the smell of the sausage he'd eaten weeks ago.

Only one smell was not there.

His own.

For the first time, Grenouille realized he had no smell.

He realized that all his life he had been a nobody to everyone.

What he now felt was the fear of his own oblivion.

It was as though he did not exist.

By the first light of next morning, Grenouille had a new plan.

He must continue his journey to Grasse.

There he would teach the world not only that he existed,

that he was someone,

but that he was exceptional.

And with this decision

it seemed that the gods had at last begun to smile on him.

Go in.

Laura?

Laura?

Coming, Papa.

Haven't seen you here before.

It's my first season.

Picking together is always more fun.

They say you pick everything you find.

Idiot!

How many times have I told you not to cram the blossoms in

like you're stuffing a chicken?

Watch how Grenouille does it.

Look how skillfully he handles them.

The whole art of enfleurage is to allow the flowers to die slowly.

In their sleep, as it were.

Handle them as you would a lady. Wouldn't you agree with me, Druot?

If you say so, Madame.

You. Check the jonquil blossoms.

They need more time.

Do what I say!

Stop it!

I'm not in the mood.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm sure.

I said...

...no!

Suit yourself

Lucien?

Fetch me back the ladder.

Fetch it yourself.

Lucien?

Lucien!

Lucien?

Lucien?

Lucien?

Tuberoses for Madame Arnulfi. She here?

She's busy.

Seems such a waste to boil them.

Or whatever you do with them.

So what do you do with them?

Warm them in animal fat.

- What for? - The fat soaks up their scent.

Then what?

Then I cool it to a pomade

and then I filter it before...

Before what?

Before I add in alcohol and other essences to make a perfume.

Don't touch anything.

What's in there?

Nothing. Just flowers.

- Can I look? - No.

Not now. I've got work to do.

You must go now.

- Come on. Let me look. - Don't touch.

Ah, my tuberoses.

Morning, Madame.

Morning.

Why have you covered the tank?

It's an experiment, Madame.

To protect the blossoms from daylight.

To preserve the scent better.

Well, if you say so.

Come with me. I'll settle your master's account.

To preserve their scent better, you say?

I don't smell much.

No. Then my experiment was a failure.

Make sure it's your time you're wasting, not ours.

How much must I pay

to be with you?

Depends what you want.

What's that stuff?

I'm creating a perfume.

Lie down, please.

It feels horrible.

It's only animal fat. To soak up your scent.

Creating a perfume, eh?

Admit it. You're getting some sort of bang out of this.

Aren't you?

I enjoy my work.

Hold your arm still.

Don't think you're gonna tie me up.

Hold out your arm, please.

I've come across some strange men in my time...

Just relax.

Holy Mother, what's that?!

Just for scraping off the fat.

- Are you mad? - Relax. You'll ruin everything.

If you're frightened, you stink. Then your perfume will be spoiled.

I've had enough.

Here, take your money.

Basting me up in all this goo. You think I am a Christmas goose?

Get out of here!

Quickly, blow them out before the roses melt!

- Roses can't melt, Papa! - These ones can.

Now I'd like to propose a toast to our guest of honour,

his Excellency, the Marquis de Montesquieu.

May our trade continue to flourish!

I thank you all

and would ask of you the honour to be the first

to offer my congratulations to your beautiful daughter

and present her with a small token of my affection.

It's beautiful.

I'm overwhelmed, your Grace.

"Your Grace"?

I had hoped that we would be on more familiar terms by now.

Let's have a game of hide-and-seek!

Oh yes! But everyone must play!

Let the men catch the women.

Albine! Wait!

Put me down. Please?

Now there's no escape.

Game's over, everybody.

Laura?

Time to go in now.

Laura?

Albine? Fran�oise?

Laura, have you seen the twins?

No, not since the game started.

Albine? Fran�oise?

Albine? Fran�oise?

Jacques?

Take this way.

You two with me.

Your Excellency? Through here.

Albine! Fran�oise!

I told that cretin ten times to get these ready!

Don't keep picking on the boy.

I'll kill him, the useless little sewer rat!

Grenouille!

What are you doing?

Why aren't the enfleurage frames...

Yes, master?

I mean, would you be good enough to prepare the enfleurage frames?

Certainly, master.

Acurfew?

Are you mad?

Jasmine can only be picked before dawn. We all know that.

This could mean the ruin of our trade.

Yours.

And yours and yours.

Supposing it's your daughter next time.

Of course a curfew is necessary, but we also have to catch this man

and to do that is to understand how he thinks, what he wants.

I should have thought that was obvious. Use your imagination.

And if I were to tell you that all except the prostitute

went to their graves with their chastity intact?

How would you know?

The coroner had each girl examined. They were all found to be virgins.

Supposing there isn't a next time?

If we introduce a curfew we may all go bankrupt for nothing.

So we wait until he's killed, what? Six?

Seven? Eight?

Curfew! Go back to your homes!

Gentlemen!

Gentlemen!

We have to face the fact that our police are helpless in this matter.

I suggest that we ask for support from Paris.

Paris won't be smarter than we are.

We must arrest every Gypsy in Provence. And every beggar.

And every man without a wife and family!

Listen.

We have to put ourselves inside the mind of this man.

Each of his victims had an especial beauty.

We know he doesn't want their virginity, so it seems to me

that it's their beauty itself that he wants.

It's almost as if he's trying to gather something.

As if his ambitions are those of a collector.

A collector? Of what?

Their hair?

Whatever it is, I fear he won't stop killing

until his collection is complete.

Monsieur.

This man is a demon.

A phantom who cannot be fought by human means.

Now, I insist that we call upon our bishop to excommunicate him!

What good would that do?

Have you no faith in the power of our Holy Mother Church?

This is not a matter of faith.

There's a murderer out there

and we must catch him by using our God-given wits!

I say until we submit to Mother Church

these killings will not cease.

Citizens of Grasse, we hereby declare that this murderer,

this demon in our midst,

has incurred the sentence of excommunication.

Not only has this depraved monster

robbed us of our daughters,

the young and fair blossom of this city,

and by his wanton acts

has brought our trade, our livelihood,

our very existence,

to the brink of eternal darkness.

We therefore declare

that this vile viper,

this ignominious carbuncle,

this execrable evil in our midst,

shall henceforth be solemnly banned from our holy presence,

rejected from the communion of Holy Mother Church

as a disciple of Satan,

slayer of souls.

Stand clear!

An infected limb, an outsider of the faith

a necromancer, a diabolist, a sorcerer

and a damned heretic.

Oh, God, in Thy most merciful spirit,

bring down thunderbolts upon his head

and may the Devil make soup of his bones.

Amen.

My Lord! It's a miracle!

He's been caught! He's been caught!

My Lord, the fiend has been caught.

In the city of Grenoble.

He's confessed to everything.

He's confessed to everything!

Hallelujah!

Hallelujah!

Praise be to God!

And we thank Him

for listening to our prayers and answering them.

Amen.

Amen.

Just read the report.

This cannot possibly be the same man.

He confessed to everything. Including the murders in Grasse.

Yes. Under torture.

Look. Here.

He admits to strangling his victims,

pulling out their hair and ravaging them.

The Grasse girls were killed by a blow to the back of their heads

their hair was carefully cropped, and not one of them was violated.

Antoine,

we're all happy it's over.

Let it go.

- Papa, what's the matter? - We're going home. Now!

But why? I'm enjoying myself.

- Don't argue with me, Laura. - Stop it! I'm going...

Laura!

Laura!

Out of my way!

Laura!

Laura!

Papa!

I'm so sorry.

I know you must think me a very foolish man,

but try to understand

you're all I have left.

You don't need to explain, Papa.

- If anything were to happen to you... - I know.

But you must stop worrying about me all the time.

Sweet dreams, my love.

Sweet dreams, Papa.

Laura!

Papa, what's the matter?

Did you open the window?

No.

Why?

Have this letter dispatched to the Marquis de Montesquieu immediately.

Stay on the road north into the mountains.

Did Monsieur Richis leave?

He did.

Which way?

North.

You sure it wasn't south?

I saw them with my own eyes. Why do you want to know?

I said north. North!

Grenouille!

Grenouille!

Grenouille!

Grenouille!

Good God!

Good afternoon, Monsieur.

Good afternoon. Do you have anyone else staying here?

No, Monsieur.

Then I would like to take all your rooms for the night.

It will be our pleasure, Monsieur.

And tomorrow, at first light, we wish to be ferried to the lle de L�rin.

- It's deserted, just a few monks. - I'm aware of that.

Very well, Monsieur.

Our finest room, Mademoiselle.

With a superb view of the sea.

One moment.

Very well.

Do you have a room next to this one?

- Yes, but the view is different. - I have no interest in the view.

Papa, will you please tell me now what is happening?

You haven't said a word all day.

Why all this secrecy?

Last night I dreamt you were dead,

murdered like all the other girls.

The truth is, I'm convinced that the killer is still here somewhere.

All of his victims were young and beautiful,

and who is there more beautiful than you, Laura?

Whatever his insane scheme,

it will surely be incomplete without you.

I wrote to the Marquis accepting his proposal of marriage

and requesting that it take place as soon as possible.

Until then you will stay in the safety of the monastery.

And all this because you had a bad dream?

- I've made my decision. - But I don't know if I love him!

I'm afraid the circumstances leave us no choice.

- Papa! - It's all arranged, Laura.

On your feet. Hands in the air!

Why did you kill my daughter?

Why?

I needed her.

Why did you kill my daughter?

I just...

needed her.

Very well.

But remember this.

I will be looking at you

when you are laid on the cross

and the twelve blows are crashing down on your limbs.

And when the crowd has finally tired

of your screams and wandered home,

I will climb up through your blood

and sit beside you.

I will look deep into your eyes

and drop by drop

I will trickle my disgust into them

like burning acid,

until

finally

you perish.

Unchain the prisoner.

That's enough.

Let him be brought to the scaffold.

What's that?

He's over there.

This man is innocent!

He is innocent!

An angel!

This is no man!

This is an angel!

Grenouille!

You can't fool me!

Forgive me,

my son.

The people of Grasse awoke to a terrible hangover.

For many of them, the experience was so ghastly,

so completely inexplicable and incompatible with their morals

that they literally erased it from their memories.

The town council was in session by the afternoon

and an order was passed to the police lieutenant

to immediately begin fresh investigations into the murders.

The following day, Dominique Druot was arrested.

It was in his back yard that they found the hair of the victims.

After fourteen hours of torture, Druot confessed to everything.

With that, the case was closed.

By then, Grenouille was already half way back to Paris.

He had enough perfume left to enslave the world if he so chose.

He could walk to Versailles and have the King kiss his feet.

He could write the Pope a letter, reveal himself as the new Messiah.

He could do all this and more if he wanted to.

He possessed a power stronger than the power of money,

or terror, or death.

The invincible power to command the love of mankind.

There was only one thing the perfume could not do:

It could not turn him into a person

who could love and be loved like everyone else.

So, to hell with it, he thought.

To hell with the world,

with the perfume,

with himself.

On the 25th of June, 1766,

around 11 o'clock at night,

Grenouille entered the city through the Port d'Orleans

and like a sleep-walker,

his olfactory memories drew him back to where he was born.

An angel!

I love you!

Within no time, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille

had disappeared from the face of the earth.

When they had finished, they felt a virginal glow of happiness.

Forthe first time in their lives

they believed that they had done something

purely out of love.

- Ey, over here! - Look!

Look, a jacket!

Let's take them all home.