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 flowerbeds. 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.”