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engravings of the old masters。 The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood。
He had never approached a cannon in his life； even at the Invalides。
He had a passable stomach； a brother who was a cure； perfectly white hair； no teeth； either in his mouth or his mind； a trembling in every limb； a Picard accent； an infantile laugh； the air of an old sheep； and he was easily frightened。
Add to this； that he had no other friendship； no other acquaintance among the living； than an old bookseller of the Porte…Saint…Jacques； named Royal。
His dream was to naturalize indigo in France。
His servant was also a sort of innocent。
The poor good old woman was a spinster。
Sultan； her cat； which might have mewed Allegri's miserere in the Sixtine Chapel； had filled her heart and sufficed for the quantity of passion which existed in her。
None of her dreams had ever proceeded as far as man。
She had never been able to get further than her cat。
Like him； she had a mustache。
Her glory consisted in her caps； which were always white。
She passed her time； on Sundays； after mass； in counting over the linen in her chest； and in spreading out on her bed the dresses in the piece which she bought and never had made up。
She knew how to read。
M。 Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque。
M。 Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius； because Marius； being young and gentle； warmed his age without startling his timidity。 Youth bined with gentleness produces on old people the effect of the sun without wind。
When Marius was saturated with military glory； with gunpowder； with marches and countermarches； and with all those prodigious battles in which his father had given and received such tremendous blows of the sword； he went to see M。 Mabeuf； and M。 Mabeuf talked to him of his hero from the point of view of flowers。
His brother the cure died about 1830； and almost immediately； as when the night is drawing on； the whole horizon grew dark for M。 Mabeuf。 A notary's failure deprived him of the sum of ten thousand francs； which was all that he possessed in his brother's right and his own。 The Revolution of July brought a crisis to publishing。
In a period of embarrassment； the first thing which does not sell is a Flora。 The Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz stopped short。
Weeks passed by without a single purchaser。
Sometimes M。 Mabeuf started at the sound of the bell。
〃Monsieur；〃 said Mother Plutarque sadly； 〃it is the water…carrier。〃 In short； one day； M。 Mabeuf quitted the Rue Mesieres； abdicated the functions of warden； gave up Saint…Sulpice； sold not a part of his books； but of his prints； that to which he was the least attached；and installed himself in a little house on the Rue Montparnasse； where； however； he remained but one quarter for two reasons：
in the first place； the ground floor and the garden cost three hundred francs； and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on his rent； in the second； being near Faton's shooting…gallery； he could hear the pistol…shots； which was intolerable to him。
He carried off his Flora； his copper…plates； his herbariums； his portfolios； and his books； and established himself near the Salpetriere； in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of Austerlitz； where； for fifty crowns a year； he got three rooms and a garden enclosed by a hedge； and containing a well。
He took advantage of this removal to sell off nearly all his furniture。 On the day of his entrance into his new quarters； he was very gay； and drove the nails on which his engravings and herbariums were to hang； with his own hands； dug in his garden the rest of the day； and at night； perceiving that Mother Plutarque had a melancholy air； and was very thoughtful； he tapped her on the shoulder and said to her with a smile：
〃We have the indigo！〃
Only two visitors； the bookseller of the Porte…Saint…Jacques and Marius； were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Austerlitz； a brawling name which was； to tell the truth； extremely disagreeable to him。
However； as we have just pointed out； brains which are absorbed in some bit of wisdom； or folly； or； as it often happens； in both at once； are but slowly accessible to the things of actual life。 Their own destiny is a far…off thing to them。
There results from such concentration a passivity； which； if it were the oute of reasoning； would resemble philosophy。
One declines； descends； trickles away； even crumbles away； and yet is hardly conscious of it one's self。 It always ends； it is true； in an awakening； but the awakening is tardy。 In the meantime； it seems as though we held ourselves neutral in the game which is going on between our happiness and our unhappiness。 We are the stake； and we look on at the game with indifference。
It is thus that； athwart the cloud which formed about him； when all his hopes were extinguished one after the other； M。 Mabeuf remained rather puerilely； but profoundly serene。
His habits of mind had the regular swing of a pendulum。
Once mounted on an illusion； he went for a very long time； even after the illusion had disappeared。 A clock does not stop short at the precise moment when the key is lost。
M。 Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures。
These pleasures were inexpensive and unexpected； the merest chance furnished them。
One day； Mother Plutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room。 She was reading aloud； finding that she understood better thus。 To read aloud is to assure one's self of what one is reading。 There are people who read very loud； and who have the appearance of giving themselves their word of honor as to what they are perusing。
It was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was reading the romance which she had in hand。
M。 Mabeuf heard her without listening to her。
In the course of her reading； Mother Plutarque came to this phrase。 It was a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty：
〃The beauty pouted； and the dragoon〃
Here she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses。
〃Bouddha and the Dragon；〃 struck in M。 Mabeuf in a low voice。 〃Yes； it is true that there was a dragon；