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"Latterly, Jacquot," he said, "I gave the place to Friar Ange, but he did not do as well as Miraut or yourself. Don't you want to take your old place at the corner of the fireside?" My mother, plain and simple as she was, did not want common-sense and said: "M. Blaizot, the bookseller of the Image of Saint Catherine, is in want of an assistant.
The 'Life of St Eustache' is a tissue of ridiculous fables; the same is the case of that of St Catherine, who has never existed except in the imagination of some wicked Byzantine monk. But I do not want to attack her too hardly, as he is the patroness of men of letters, and serves as a signboard to the bookshop of that good M. Blaizot, which is the most delectable abode in this world."
This employment, Jacquot, ought to suit you like a glove. Thy dispositions are sweet, thy manners are good, and that's what's wanted to sell Bibles." I went at once to M. Blaizot, who took me into his service. My misfortunes had made me wise.
His penthouse was opposite Saint Benoit le Betourne between Mistress Gilles the haberdasher at the Three Virgins and M. Blaizot, the bookseller at the sign of Saint Catherine, not far from the Little Bacchus, the gate of which, decorated with vine branches, was at the corner of the Rue des Cordiers.
I took coach immediately and travelled with some recruits. My heart beat violently when I again saw the Rue Saint Jacques, the clock of Saint Benoit le Betourne, the signboard of the Three Virgins and the Saint Catherine of M. Blaizot. My mother cried when she saw me; I also cried, and we embraced and cried together again.
M. Blaizot was never tired of listening to him. This M. Blaizot was a little old man, dry and neat, in flea-coloured coat and breeches and grey woollen stockings. I admired him very much, and could not think of anything more glorious than, like him, to sell books at the Image of St Catherine. One recollection of mine gave to M. Blaizot's shop quite a mysterious charm.
The first effect my dimity vest produced was to give me a certain confidence in myself, and to encourage me to get a more complete idea of women than the one I had from the Eve of M. Blaizot.
The memory of Jahel, smarting at first, was smoothed down little by little, and nothing remained but a vague irritation, of which she was no longer the only object. M. Blaizot aged quickly. He retired to Montrouge, to his cottage in the fields, and sold me his shop against a life annuity.
I am pardoned and return to Paris Again at the Queen Pedauque I go as Assistant to M. Blaizot Burning of the Castle of Sablons Death of Mosaide and of M. d'Asterac. From now onwards my life loses the interest which events had lent it, and my destiny, having again become in conformity with my character, offers nothing but ordinary occurrences.
He became a constant visitor of M. Blaizot the bookseller, who received him well, notwithstanding that he only used to thumb the books without ever making the smallest purchase.
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