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
CHAPTER I—THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION
Of what is revolt composed?
Of nothing and of everything.
Of an electricity disengaged, little by little, of a flame suddenly darting forth, of a wandering force, of a passing breath.
This breath encounters heads which speak, brains which dream, souls which suffer, passions which burn, wretchedness which howls, and bears them away.
Whither?
At random.
Athwart the state, the laws, athwart prosperity and the insolence of others.