The next day, the day after, every day, he had to begin again. M. Mabeuf went out with a book and came back with a little money. As the secondhand bookstall keepers saw that he was forced to sell, they bought from him for twenty sous what he had paid twenty francs for. Sometimes to the same booksellers. Volume by volume, the whole library disappeared. At times he would say, "But I am eighty years old," as if he had some lingering hope of reaching the end of his days before reaching the end of his books.
Every day, M. Mabeuf faced the grim reality of having to start anew. He would venture out with a book, only to return with a small amount of money after selling it. The secondhand booksellers, aware of his desperation, took advantage of him by buying his valuable books for just a fraction of their worth, often purchasing the same volumes he had previously sold to them. Thus, his cherished library dwindled over time.
Despite his advancing age, at eighty years old, M. Mabeuf held onto a glimmer of hope that he would somehow finish his life before depleting his precious collection. His repeated lament about his age reflected his desire to see his remaining days unfold without the loss of his beloved books, each one representing a part of his life and memories.
