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 Dignite de l'Ambassadeur, by the Sieur de Villiers Hotman;
a Florilegium Rabbinicum of 1644; a Tibullus of 1567, with this
magnificent inscription: Venetiis, in aedibus 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,
"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 Gres.--"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,
"What is it?"
The gardener, spade on back, replied in the most unconcerned tone:--
"It is the 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.