griculture 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