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Updated: May 27, 2025
It is a wide step from Montaigne to Rousseau, and yet, spite of the naturalness of the one and the artificiality of the other, there were some points of resemblance between them, and they harmonize in their love for a common master, Rousseau has written of Plutarch as Montaigne felt, "Dans le petit nombre de livres que je lis quelquefois encore, Plutarque est celui qui m'attache et me profite le plus.
From that moment forth, Mother Plutarque saw a sombre veil, which was never more lifted, descend over the old man's candid face. On the following day, on the day after, and on the day after that, it had to be done again. M. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin.
Trembling with joy, he showed the letter to Mother Plutarque. "We are saved!" said he. On the day appointed, he went to the Minister's house. He perceived that his ragged cravat, his long, square coat, and his waxed shoes astonished the ushers. No one spoke to him, not even the Minister.
"Vos livres éternels ne me contentent pas; Et, hors un gros Plutarque
"Cette definition, que nous traduisons litteralement, n'est pas lumineuse; elle conviendrait egalement a la maniere dont Alexandre parle et agit dans Plutarque, et a celle dont Sancho parle et agit dans Cervantes. II y a apparence que l'humour est comme l'esprit, et que ceux qui en ont le plus ne savent pas trop bien ce que c'est.
"Monsieur Mabeuf!" said the old woman. "Mabeuf!" thought Gavroche, "that name is a perfect farce." The old man who was thus addressed, did not stir. The old woman repeated: "Monsieur Mabeuf!" The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made up his mind to answer: "What is it, Mother Plutarque?" "Mother Plutarque!" thought Gavroche, "another farcical name."
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.
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.
One day, Mother Plutarque said to him: "I have no money to buy any dinner." What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes. "On credit?" suggested M. Mabeuf. "You know well that people refuse me."
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