PERFUMES 



point of distinguishing those of the rain or the twilight, why 

 should we not one day succeed in recognizing and establishing 

 the scent of snow, of ice, of morning dew, of early dawn, of 

 the twinkling of the stars? Everything in space must have its 

 perfume, as yet past comprehension: even a moonbeam, a 

 ripple on the water, a soaring cloud, an azure smile of the 

 sky. . . . 



Chance or rather deliberate choice has lately led me back 

 to the spot where almost all the perfumes of Europe are born 

 and brought to perfection. It is, in point of fact, as every 

 one knows, in the sun-swept region between Cannes and Nice 

 that the last hills and the last valleys of live and true flowers 

 maintain an heroic struggle against the coarse chemical odours 

 of Germany, which stand in exactly the same relation to na- 

 ture's perfumes as to the painted woods and plains of a theatre 

 to the woods and plains of the real country. Here, the peas- 

 ant's work is ruled by a sort of purely floral calendar, in which, 

 in May and July, two adorable queens hold sway: the rose 

 and the jasmine. Around these two sovereigns of the year, 

 one the hue of the dawn, the other arrayed in white stars, 



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