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Quick! We can't hold him back much longer.
Hurry!
Come on!
Quick!
Faster!
Up on the balcony! 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 towards 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 sole reason...
that his entire ambition was restricted to a domain...
that leaves no trace in history:
to the fleeting realm of scent.
PERFUME The Story of a Murderer
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 delivered them all here under her fish stand.
And all had been stillbirths, or semi-stillbirths.
Are you alright?
And by evening, the whole mess had been shoveled away...
with the fish guts into the river.
It would be much the same today...
but then...
Jean-Baptiste chose differently.
What's that noise?
It's... it's a baby.
What's going on here?
- It's a newborn. - Where's his mother?
She was just here.
She tried to kill it, her own child. She tried to kill a 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 orphange 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!
Is he dead?
- That's not staying in my bed. - Let's throw it out then.
- What if it screams? - It's just a kiddie.
Harder! Push!
What are you doing?
For Madame Gaillard...
Grenouille was a source of income just 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 had been born with a talent that made him unique among their kind.
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 give 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 experience he's 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 the age of thirteen, Madame 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, it's not worth so much.
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 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 choosing.
He did not differentiate between what is commonly considered to be...
good smells from bad.
At least, not yet.
He was very greedy.
The goal was to possess...
everything the world had to offer in the way of odors.
His only condition being... that they were new ones.
Thousands upon thousands of odors formed an invisible gruel...
which he dissected into its smallest and most remote parts of pieces.
Grenouille!
Come on!
Your ass over here.
- What is it called? - "Amor and Psyche", madame.
My little creation.
- May I try it? - If you allow me, mademoiselle.
Sheer heaven...
Monsieur P¨¦lissier, you are truly an artiste.
What do you want?
Want to buy some?
Two for a sou.
That's for you running off like that.
I'll kill you!
That night, he could not sleep.
The intoxicating power of the girls's scent suddenly made it clear to him...
why he had come to his own life so tenaciously, so savagely.
The meaning and 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 one celebrated Italian perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini,
had set up shop in the center of the bridge,
called "the 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 will 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's asked for something like...
I think he said it was called... "Amor and Psyche"?
That swindler in the rue Saint-Andr¨¦-des-Arts.
- P¨¦lissier. - P¨¦lissier! That's him.
"Amor and Psyche"ê.
- Do you know it? - Oh, yes.
You can smell it everywhere these days, monsieur.
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 cord contains lime oil.
Really? And the heart cord?
Orange blossom, I believe.
And civet in the base cord, but I cannot say for sure.
Well, I couldn't care less what that bungler P¨¦lissier 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.
Vanessa! Bring me the handkerchiefs!
Here are your handkerchiefs.
Grazie... grazie... grazie!
Is there anything else you need?
Inspiration, perhaps.
Come on, Giuseppe!
You're still the great perfumer Baldini.
Bellissimo... Wonderful...
He did it again.
Lime oil, yes indeed.
Orange blossom, to be sure.
And a hint of cloves, perhaps.
No...
Well, 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 brought the goatskins you ordered.
Follow me.
This way.
There. Leave them there.
Tell your master the skins are fine.
I'll come by the next few days and pay for them.
Yes, monsieur.
You want to make this leather smell good, don't you?
- Why, of course. - With "Amor and Psyche" by P¨¦lissier?
Whatever gave you the absurb 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 and Psyche" is, master. There's too much rosemary in it, and too much of...
that and that.
Bergamot and patchouli.
Pa...
- Patchouli. - Patchou...
What else?
That and that.
Orange blossom.
Lime.
- Musk. - Musk.
And cloves.
And this.
- Storax? - That's in it too.
- Storax. Storax. - Storax. Storax.
You have, it appears, a fine nose, young man. But...
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! Basta!
You don't interrupt me when I'm speaking.
You're both impertinent and insolent!
Even I don't know every scent.
I, of course, know for some time the ingredients of "Amor and 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 cords. And in what precise measurements.
Could you tell me the exact formula of "Amor and Psyche"ê?
"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, I don't know what a formula is.
But I can make "Amor and Psyche" for you now.
And you think I'll just 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, this very moment, to prove your assertion.
Your grandiose failure will also be an opportunity for you to learn...
- the virture of humility. - How much do you want me to make?
- How much of... what? - How much "Amor and Psyche" do you want?
- Shall I fill this flask? - No! You shall not!
- You may fill this one. - Yes, master.
- But, Master Baldini, - Hmm?
you must let me do it in my own way.
As you please.
Don't drop that! That's pure alcohol!
You want to blow up the entire building?
You have to measure it first!
Stop! Stop it! That's enough! Basta!
You know nothing!
Essential oils are always to be mixed first, then the alcohol added.
And never ever let this perfume to be shaken like that.
I must've been insane to listen to your asinine gibberish.
Yes, we're done.
Mamamiya...
This is "Amor and Psyche".
But it's not a good perfume, master.
If you let me again, master, I'll make it more better.
That'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't I come to work for you, master, can't 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.
Hey, watch out!
Now at 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 secret of the perfumers' craft began to unfold.
Now, pay careful attention to what I tell you.
Just like a musical cord,
a perfume cord contains four essences, or notes,
carefully selected for their harmonic affinity.
Each perfume contains three cords: the head, the heart and the base,
necessitating twelve notes in all.
The head cord contains the first impression,
lasting only a few minutes, before giving way to the heart cord:
the theme of the perfume, lasting several hours.
Finally, the base cord:
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 a jar 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 single person on earth believed they were in paradise.
Twelve essences could be identified.
But the thirteenth, the vital one...
could never be determined.
Why not?
Why not??
What do you mean why not?
Because it's a legend, numskull.
What's a legend?
Never mind.
Jean-Baptiste. Jean-Baptiste.
What's the matter?
I... I have to learn how to capture a scent.
What are you talking about?
I have to learn how... how to capture a scent and "reprose" it forever.
- You mean "preserve". - Yes, teach me that.
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 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 perfumer in the whole world.
Imagine, Jean-Baptiste:
ten thousand roses to produce one single ounce of essential oil.
Now, keep them flowing, for the bottom petals will be given 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 boiler set.
Temperature is vital. When the quicksilver is here,
the heat is precisely correct, and the oil will gradually rise.
Note that 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! It 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?
Nothing.
- What were you expecting to smell? - Glass.
- But glass doesn't smell. - Of course it does. What's this?
I don't smell a thing.
Basta!
- Did you smell that copper? - Enough!
You were trying to distil 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? With a cat?!
What kind of a human being are youê é?
Don't you know anything?
You can no more distil the scent of a cat...
than you can distil the scent of you and me!
- I can't? - Of course not!
He's in stadio ultimo.
- What? - He's dying.
Is there nothing you can do?
- I fear not. - No! He cannot die.
- Well, the fee is 50 francs. - 50 francs? You're a charlatan!
Oh dear, Jean-Baptiste!
You cannot do this to me. Please, don't die on me.
Not now, not yet!
Is there...
any other way...
to preserve smell besides distil it?
Jean-Baptiste...
- Is there, master? - Well, yes, I... I believe there is.
What is ité?
It is known as the mysterious art of Enfleurage.
Can you teach me?
Not even I am intimate with the secrets.
But could I learn it in Grasse?
- Well... - Could I?
Where else but in Grasse!
Within a week, Grenouille was well again.
But in order to travel to Grasse, and find a job,
he needed a journeyman's papers.
Baldini agreed to provide them,
on condition that Grenouille left him not less than 100 formulas for new perfumes.
Grenouille did not mind. He could've 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 Grenouille took away 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 road through the villages...
while the second lay straight across the hills and mountains,
down into Provence.
The choice was quite easy.
Thus, his nose led him ever higher, ever further from mankind.
Ever 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've done so altogether.
Helloá.
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 in his life, Grenouille realized...
that he had no smell of his own.
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.
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 do 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 Enflourage...
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.
It 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 by the ladder! - Fetch it yourself!
Lucien?
Lucien!
Lucien?
Lucien.
Tuberoses.
For Madame Arnulfi. She hereá?
She's busy.
Seem 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 toward pomade, and...
and then I filter it, before...
Before what?
Before adding alcohol and other essences to make 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.
- Ah, come on, let me look. - Don't touch!
- Morning, madame. - Morning.
Why do you cover the tank?
It's an experiment, madame, to...
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 youê.
Depends what you want.
What's that stuff?
I'm creating a perfume.
Lie down, please.
They feels horrible.
It's only animal fat. To soak up your scent.
Creating a perfume, mate?
Come on, admit it.
You're getting some sorta bang out of this, aren't you?
Aren't you?
I enjoy my work.
Keep 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 scraping off the fat. - Are you mad?
I said relax! You'll ruin everything.
Your frighten just stink, your perfume will be spoiled.
I've had enough!
Get out! Here, take your money!
Baste me with all these goo. What do 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 honor...
His Excellency, the Marquis de Montesquieu.
May our trade continue to flourish!
I thank you all...
and will ask of you the honor to be the first to...
offer my congratulations to your beautiful daughter.
And present her with a small token of my affection.
- I'm overwhelmed, Your Grace. - Your Grace?
I had hoped that it would be on more familiar terms by now.
- Let's have a game of hide-and-seek! - Oh, yes! But everyone must play.
Men catch the women.
Bravo! Bravo!
Albine, wait!
No!
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, go with me.
Your Excellency, through here.
I've told that cretin ten times to get these ready.
Don't keep picking on the boy.
I'll kill 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, Jean-Baptiste?
Certainly, master.
Hey, look!
Sweet... There!
A curfew? 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 the only way to do that is to understand how he thinks!
- What he wants! - I should've 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!
- What's happening? - It's a curfew. Back to your home.
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.
Arrest every Gypsy and 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 that beauty itself...
that he wants. It's almost as if...
as if he's trying to gather something.
His ambitions of those of a collector.
- A collector of what? - Their hair?
Get out! Get out!
Whatever it is...
I fear he won't stop killing until his collection is complete.
Here you are! Next!
You too!
Monsieur?
This man... 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?
It's 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 him to our church...
these killings will not cease.
Citizens of Grasse...
we hereby declare that this murderer...
is 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 the 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 extricable evil in our midsts...
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! Stand clear!
outsider of the faith...
a necromancer, a diabolist, a sorcerer...
a damned heretic!
Oh, God! In thy most merciful spirit,
bring down thunderbolts upon his head!
And may the Devil make stope of his bones! Amen!
My Lord! 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!
Thanks be to God. And we thank him for listening to our prayers...
and answering them. Amen!
Amen! Amen!
Just read the report. This cannot possibly be the same man.
He confessed to everything, including the murders in Grasse.
Yes, and the torture.
Look, here!
He admits to strangling his victims...
pulling out their hair, and ravaging them.
The girls of Grasse were killed by a single 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!
Stop it! I'm grown-up...
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 would 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.
Marie, quickly!
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!
What do you want to know?
I said north, north!
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 a pleasure, monsieur.
And tomorrow, first light, we wish to be ferried to the Iles de L¨¦rins.
- It's deserted except for a few... - I'm aware of that.
Very well, monsieur.
Our finest room, mademoiselle.
With the superb view of the sea.
One moment.
Very well.
- Do you have a room next to this? - Yes, but the view cannot be compared to...
There have no interest in the view.
Oh, my God...
Monsieur.
Papa, will you please tell me now what's happening.
You haven't said a word all day.
Why all the 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've written to the Marquis accepting his proposal and marriage on your behalf,
and requesting that it take place as soon as possible.
Until then, you 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 whether I even 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 you remember this:
I'll be looking at you...
when you're laid on the cross,
and the twelve blows are crashing down on your limbs.
When the crowd is 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 digust into them...
like burning acid...
until...
finally...
you perish.
What do you think they'll do to him?
Apparently, they're gonna break every bone in his body with an iron bar.
Look, there he comes!
Unchain the prisoner.
That's enough.
Let him be brought to the scaffold.
What's that?
Is he coming? What's his name?
This man is innocent.
- He didn't do it. It's impossible! - He's innocent!
He's innocent!
This is no man! This is an angel!
You can't fool me!
Forgive me!
My son!
People of Grasse awoke to a terrible hangover.
For many of them, the experience was so gustly, 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.
Since it was in his backyard that the clothes and hair of all the victims had been found.
After fourteen hours of torture, Druot confessed to everything.
With that, the case was closed.
By then, Grenouille was already halfway back to Paris.
He still had enough perfume left to enslave the whole world, if he so chose.
He could walk to Versailles, and have the King kiss his feet.
He could write the Pope a perfumed letter, and reveal himself as a 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-de-Leones.
And like a sleepwalker, his olfactory memories drew him back to the place 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.
For the first time in their lives, they believed that they had done something...
purely out of love.
Hey, over here!
Look!
Let's take them away.
You could wear them.
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