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.