It seemed to me that she smiled rather slyly. I did not know if it was the
kindly Aunty Mille, who loved me, or the terrible one to whom I had made
the promise the night before.
“Have you written any poetry, sweet child?”
“No, no!” I shouted. “You are Aunty Mille, aren't you?”
“Who else?” she said. And it was Aunty Mille.
She kissed me, got into a carriage, and drove home.
I wrote down what is written here. It is not in verse, and it will never be
printed.
Yes, here ended the manuscript.
My young friend, the grocer's assistant, could not find the missing sheets;
they had gone out into the world like the papers around the salted herring,
the butter, and the green soap; they had fulfilled their destiny!
The brewer is dead; Aunty is dead; the student is dead, he whose sparks
of genius went into the basket. This is the end of the story - the story of
Aunty Toothache.
