The squirrel has died. He has died, I should add, from choking on the very toe he stole from me. I am told this is unusual, even among reanimated rodents. Doctor Vermeulen, who has now seen more of my foot than my wife, called it "a uniquely closed loop of consequence."

He was found by Madame Pacquot's grandson behind the boulangerie, stiff and wedged behind a wine crate, with the four-tenths of toe still partly visible. Madame Pacquot has asked me, with great delicacy, whether I would like the toe back. I said no. I have made peace with nine point six.

I do not say I am glad he is dead. I am, but I do not say it. What I say is: he was a small, confused, posthumously ambulatory creature, and he is now at rest, and any further animosity on my part would be unbecoming of a man who has already won.

Gerda baked a cake. We did not invite anyone.