“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.