at he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities of life； and that he was resting from his labors too soon。
It was evident that； for this energetic and enthusiastic nature； this could only be a transitory state； and that； at the first shock against the inevitable plications of destiny； Marius would awaken。
In the meantime； although he was a lawyer； and whatever Father Gillenormand thought about the matter； he was not practising； he was not even pettifogging。
Meditation had turned him aside from pleading。 To haunt attorneys； to follow the court； to hunt up cases what a bore！
Why should he do it？
He saw no reason for changing the manner of gaining his livelihood！
The obscure and ill…paid publishing establishment had e to mean for him a sure source of work which did not involve too much labor； as we have explained； and which sufficed for his wants。
One of the publishers for whom he worked； M。 Magimel； I think； offered to take him into his own house； to lodge him well； to furnish him with regular occupation； and to give him fifteen hundred francs a year。
To be well lodged！
Fifteen hundred francs！
No doubt。 But renounce his liberty！
Be on fixed wages！
A sort of hired man of letters！
According to Marius' opinion； if he accepted； his position would bee both better and worse at the same time； he acquired fort； and lost his dignity； it was a fine and plete unhappiness converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture： something like the case of a blind man who should recover the sight of one eye。
He refused。
Marius dwelt in solitude。
Owing to his taste for remaining outside of everything； and through having been too much alarmed； he had not entered decidedly into the group presided over by Enjolras。 They had remained good friends； they were ready to assist each other on occasion in every possible way； but nothing more。 Marius had two friends：
one young； Courfeyrac； and one old； M。 Mabeuf。
He inclined more to the old man。
In the first place； he owed to him the revolution which had taken place within him； to him he was indebted for having known and loved his father。 〃He operated on me for a cataract；〃 he said。
The churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part。
It was not； however； that M。 Mabeuf had been anything but the calm and impassive agent of Providence in this connection。
He had enlightened Marius by chance and without being aware of the fact； as does a candle which some one brings； he had been the candle and not the some one。
As for Marius' inward political revolution； M。 Mabeuf was totally incapable of prehending it； of willing or of directing it。
As we shall see M。 Mabeuf again； later on； a few words will not be superfluous。
BOOK FIFTH。THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE
CHAPTER IV
M。 MABEUF
On the day when M。 Mabeuf said to Marius：
〃Certainly I approve of political opinions；〃 he expressed the real state of his mind。 All political opinions were matters of indifference to him； and he approved them all； without distinction； provided they left him in peace； as the Greeks called the Furies 〃the beautiful； the good； the charming；〃 the Eumenides。
M。 Mabeuf's political opinion consisted in a passionate love for plants； and； above all； for books。 Like all the rest of the world； he possessed the termination in ist； without which no one could exist at that time； but he was neither a Royalist； a Bonapartist； a Chartist； an Orleanist； nor an Anarchist； he was a bouquinist； a collector of old books。
He did not understand how men could busy themselves with hating each other because of silly stuff like the charter； democracy； legitimacy； monarchy； the republic； etc。； when there were in the world all sorts of mosses； grasses； and shrubs which they might be looking at； and heaps of folios； and even of 32mos； which they might turn over。
He took good care not to bee useless； having books did not prevent his reading； being a botanist did not prevent his being a gardener。
When he made Pontmercy's acquaintance； this sympathy had existed between the colonel and himselfthat what the colonel did for flowers； he did for fruits。
M。 Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling pears as savory as the pears of St。 Germain； it is from one of his binations； apparently； that the October Mirabelle； now celebrated and no less perfumed than the summer Mirabelle； owes its origin。
He went to mass rather from gentleness than from piety； and because； as he loved the faces of men； but hated their noise； he found them assembled and silent only in church。 Feeling that he must be something in the State； he had chosen the career of warden。
However； he had never succeeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip bulb； nor any man as much as an Elzevir。 He had long passed sixty； when； one day； some one asked him： 〃Have you never been married？〃
〃I have forgotten；〃 said he。 When it sometimes happened to himand to whom does it not happen？ to say：
〃Oh！ if I were only rich！〃 it was not when ogling a pretty girl； as was the case with Father Gillenormand； but when contemplating an old book。
He lived alone with an old housekeeper。 He was somewhat gouty； and when he was asleep； his aged fingers； stiffened with rheumatism； lay crooked up in the folds of his sheets。 He had posed and published a Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz； with colored plates； a work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which sold well。
People rang his bell； in the Rue Mesieres； two or three times a day； to ask for it。
He drew as much as two thousand francs a year from it； this constituted nearly the whole of his fortune。
Although poor； he had had the talent to form for himself； by dint of patience； privations； and time； a precious collection of rare copies of every sort。
He never went out without a book under his arm； and he often returned with two。
The sole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor； which posed his lodgings； consisted of framed herbariums； and 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 m