Chapter Chapter 266 · M. MABEUF

Jean Valjean’s purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf, in his

venerable, infantile austerity, had not accepted the gift of the stars;

he had not admitted that a star could coin itself into louis d’or. He

had not divined that what had fallen from heaven had come from

Gavroche. He had taken the purse to the police commissioner of the

quarter, as a lost article placed by the finder at the disposal of

claimants. The purse was actually lost. It is unnecessary to say that

no one claimed it, and that it did not succor M. Mabeuf.

Moreover, M. Mabeuf had continued his downward course.

His experiments on indigo had been no more successful in the Jardin des

Plantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The year before he had owed

his housekeeper’s wages; now, as we have seen, he owed three quarters

of his rent. The pawnshop had sold the plates of his _Flora_ after the

expiration of thirteen months. Some coppersmith had made stewpans of

them. His copper plates gone, and being unable to complete even the

incomplete copies of his _Flora_ which were in his possession, he had

disposed of the text, at a miserable price, as waste paper, to a

second-hand bookseller. Nothing now remained to him of his life’s work.

He set to work to eat up the money for these copies. When he saw that

this wretched resource was becoming exhausted, he gave up his garden

and allowed it to run to waste. Before this, a long time before, he had

given up his two eggs and the morsel of beef which he ate from time to

time. He dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold the last of his

furniture, then all duplicates of his bedding, his clothing and his

blankets, then his herbariums and prints; but he still retained his

most precious books, many of which were of the greatest rarity, among

others, _Les Quadrins Historiques de la Bible_, edition of 1560; _La

Concordance des Bibles_, by Pierre de Besse; _Les Marguerites de la

Marguerite_, of Jean de La Haye, with a dedication to the Queen of

Navarre; the book _de la Charge et Dignité de l’Ambassadeur_, by the

Sieur de Villiers Hotman; a _Florilegium Rabbinicum_ of 1644; a

_Tibullus_ of 1567, with this magnificent inscription: _Venetiis, in

ædibus Manutianis_; and lastly, a Diogenes Laertius, printed at Lyons

in 1644, which contained the famous variant of the manuscript 411,

thirteenth century, of the Vatican, and those of the two manuscripts of

Venice, 393 and 394, consulted with such fruitful results by Henri

Estienne, and all the passages in Doric dialect which are only found in

the celebrated manuscript of the twelfth century belonging to the

Naples Library. M. Mabeuf never had any fire in his chamber, and went

to bed at sundown, in order not to consume any candles. It seemed as

though he had no longer any neighbors: people avoided him when he went

out; he perceived the fact. The wretchedness of a child interests a

mother, the wretchedness of a young man interests a young girl, the

wretchedness of an old man interests no one. It is, of all distresses,

the coldest. Still, Father Mabeuf had not entirely lost his childlike

serenity. His eyes acquired some vivacity when they rested on his

books, and he smiled when he gazed at the Diogenes Laertius, which was

a unique copy. His bookcase with glass doors was the only piece of

furniture which he had kept beyond what was strictly indispensable.

One day, Mother Plutarque said to him:—

“I have no money to buy any dinner.”

What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes.

“On credit?” suggested M. Mabeuf.

“You know well that people refuse me.”

M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase, took a long look at all his books, one

after another, as a father obliged to decimate his children would gaze

upon them before making a choice, then seized one hastily, put it in

under his arm and went out. He returned two hours later, without

anything under his arm, laid thirty sous on the table, and said:—

“You will get something for dinner.”

From that moment forth, Mother Plutarque saw a sombre veil, which was

never more lifted, descend over the old man’s candid face.

On the following day, on the day after, and on the day after that, it

had to be done again.

M. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin. As the

second-hand dealers perceived that he was forced to sell, they

purchased of him for twenty sous that for which he had paid twenty

francs, sometimes at those very shops. Volume by volume, the whole

library went the same road. He said at times: “But I am eighty;” as

though he cherished some secret hope that he should arrive at the end

of his days before reaching the end of his books. His melancholy

increased. Once, however, he had a pleasure. He had gone out with a

Robert Estienne, which he had sold for thirty-five sous under the Quai

Malaquais, and he returned with an Aldus which he had bought for forty

sous in the Rue des Grès.—“I owe five sous,” he said, beaming on Mother

Plutarque. That day he had no dinner.

He belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution became known

there. The president of the society came to see him, promised to speak

to the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce about him, and did

so.—“Why, what!” exclaimed the Minister, “I should think so! An old

savant! a botanist! an inoffensive man! Something must be done for

him!” On the following day, M. Mabeuf received an invitation to dine

with the Minister. Trembling with joy, he showed the letter to Mother

Plutarque. “We are saved!” said he. On the day appointed, he went to

the Minister’s house. He perceived that his ragged cravat, his long,

square coat, and his waxed shoes astonished the ushers. No one spoke to

him, not even the Minister. About ten o’clock in the evening, while he

was still waiting for a word, he heard the Minister’s wife, a beautiful

woman in a low-necked gown whom he had not ventured to approach,

inquire: “Who is that old gentleman?” He returned home on foot at

midnight, in a driving rain-storm. He had sold an Elzevir to pay for a

carriage in which to go thither.

He had acquired the habit of reading a few pages in his Diogenes

Laertius every night, before he went to bed. He knew enough Greek to

enjoy the peculiarities of the text which he owned. He had now no other

enjoyment. Several weeks passed. All at once, Mother Plutarque fell

ill. There is one thing sadder than having no money with which to buy

bread at the baker’s and that is having no money to purchase drugs at

the apothecary’s. One evening, the doctor had ordered a very expensive

potion. And the malady was growing worse; a nurse was required. M.

Mabeuf opened his bookcase; there was nothing there. The last volume

had taken its departure. All that was left to him was Diogenes

Laertius. He put this unique copy under his arm, and went out. It was

the 4th of June, 1832; he went to the Porte Saint-Jacques, to Royal’s

successor, and returned with one hundred francs. He laid the pile of

five-franc pieces on the old serving-woman’s nightstand, and returned

to his chamber without saying a word.

On the following morning, at dawn, he seated himself on the overturned

post in his garden, and he could be seen over the top of the hedge,

sitting the whole morning motionless, with drooping head, his eyes

vaguely fixed on the withered flower-beds. It rained at intervals; the

old man did not seem to perceive the fact.

In the afternoon, extraordinary noises broke out in Paris. They

resembled shots and the clamors of a multitude.

Father Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing, and

inquired:—

“What is it?”

The gardener, spade on back, replied in the most unconcerned tone:—

“It is the riots.”

“What riots?”

“Yes, they are fighting.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“Ah, good Heavens!” ejaculated the gardener.

“In what direction?” went on M. Mabeuf.

“In the neighborhood of the Arsenal.”

Father Mabeuf went to his room, took his hat, mechanically sought for a

book to place under his arm, found none, said: “Ah! truly!” and went

off with a bewildered air.

BOOK TENTH—THE 5TH OF JUNE, 1832