Antiques
He knew this was coming. Nevertheless his hands shake a little as he puts the Diogenes Laertius down on the counter. The bookseller's normally pinched expression is tempered with pity. "Back again, Monsieur Mabeuf?"
He nods, unable to speak, and looks at his hands while the other examines the book.
"Shall we say a hundred?" It is better than he hoped, and he tries to summon a polite smile in spite of his leaden heart. This is the end, the sorry dregs of a wasted life.
Were you never married? --I forget...
With the money in his pocket, he casts a last look at his book, and turns toward the door.
"Pardon me. Mabeuf, did he say? Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz?"
He raises his head. The man is youngish (though everyone looks young to Mabeuf these days); he has drab, neat clothes and an abysmal accent.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Always was fond of that," the stranger says, with a sort of anxious sympathy. "Rather quaint, you know, but very, er, well thought out, I thought."
Mabeuf bows his head. "You are very kind," he murmurs, and goes out.
Aziraphale watches him go a little sadly. He could have handled that better, he reflects, but there are times when "Fear not" simply doesn't cover it. Lost in his musings, he ends up paying two hundred francs for the Diogenes Laertius.