I had just finished by one o'clock. I had taken only three hours to the three volumes of my story, because I had torn out all the "extra leaves." "If the father is the Buying-public, the daughter is the Reading-public, and we must not plague her with anything that's not purely historical," I said, and sacrificed my most precious digressions, for which, moreover, such an enchanting neighbourhood is not quite the proper soil. Then the old man coughed, got up from his chair, asked what o'clock it was, wished me good night, and opening the door saw me out (thereby depriving me of a good one), and saw me no more till that night week, on New Year's Eve. My readers will remember that I had promised to come on that evening, because I had to make a brief report to my client concerning my "Flower-pieces"--this very book. I assure the gentle reader that I shall report the events of the evening exactly as they occurred. I appeared again, then, on the last evening of the year 1794, on the red waves of which so many bodies, bled to death, were borne away to the Ocean of Eternity. My client received me with a coldness which I attributed partly to that of the temperature outside (for both men and wolves are most ferocious in hard frost), partly to the Vienna letters which I had--NOT with me; and on the whole, I had but little to say to the fellow on this occasion. As, besides, I was going to leave Scheerau on the New Year's Day by the Thursday coach, and was very anxious to lay before my dear Pauline some more _Paulina_, namely these sketches, because I knew that whatever other wares she might find upon her counter, these wouldn't be among them--I consider that no editor who has any principles whatever can possibly get into a passion at my _having_ duly appeared. Let any hot-headed person of the sort just listen to the plan I had. I wanted first to give to this silent soul-flower the FLOWER-PIECES, two dreams made of flowers put together mosaic-fashion--next the Thorn-pieces,[6] from which I had to break away the thorns, that is, the satires, so that nothing remained but a mere curious story and lastly, the Fruit-piece was to be served up last, as it is in the book itself, by way of dessert; and in this ripe fruit (from which I had previously orally expressed all the chilling ice-apple juice of philosophy, which the press has, however, left in) I meant to appear at the end of the day, myself as Appleworm. This would have led by easy steps to my departure or farewell; for I did not know whether I should ever again see or hear of Pauline, this flower-polypus, stretching out eyeless, palpitating, tentacula, from mere INSTINCT towards the LIGHT. With the old decayed wood on which the polyp was blooming I, of course, having no Vienna letters, had little to do. But near as it was to the time for wishing new year's wishes, the old year was doomed to end with wishes unfulfilled.