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 secondhand 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 rainstorm. He had sold an Elzevir to pay for a carriage in which to go thither.