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