But no, that was absurd, and, besides, that required courage. And courage, in its best sense, he had never had. He had only shown courage, or the semblance of it--a certain dash--the kind which in the army is known as “_Schneid_.” But here, when facing the final realities of life, his courage entirely deserted him. And was it not possible, after all, that luck would come to his aid in this dire extremity? He had only the one life, and once thrown away the loss was irremediable. Suicide therefore would be rash and stupid--folly never to be redeemed. Life might smile on him again, and should he then with his own hand cut it off? No, on no account. But no rescuing thought would occur to him, cudgel his brain as he might. And torturing, self-abasing reflections crowded again into his brain. The thought of his servant, of poor Röse, curiously enough, was uppermost. Had not Röse, dolt that he was, cunningly managed to disappear from a scene which was, in a certain sense, as unbearable as his master’s at this juncture? And Röse by now was perhaps seated comfortably in a quiet corner where nobody was looking for him, and where it was possible to live without interference. Could he himself, then, not do the same thing? And this shadowy thought began to take solid form the more Borgert dwelt on it. It seemed to him the only egress from the situation. In new surroundings, in another country, amongst people who did not know him, he might begin life afresh, and soon grass would grow over the short-lived sensation which his disappearance would create in this world-forgotten little hole of a town! Within a twelvemonth his very name perhaps would be no longer on anybody’s lips in this place. And even if in times to come this or that one of his comrades should mention his name, it would be with the thought that such a man had existed at some time or other, and that nobody to-day cared about him any more. He was so lost in his dreary thoughts that he did not observe the door opening and giving admittance to Frau Leimann. She looked pale and serious. Her face, so pleasant in its youthful, placid beauty at other times, now appeared aged, and her eyes wore an anxious expression. Borgert did not rise, but contented himself with nodding to her, saying never a word. His glance enveloped this woman, an intrigue with whom had seemed to him but a short while ago an ambition worthy of his talents. But to-day she appeared to him no longer so desirable; her motions seemed to him without grace or distinction, and her charms mediocre. Her hair was arranged in negligent fashion, and the soft folds of her morning gown to-day seemed to enwrap another woman and not the one whose beauty had intoxicated him. Two impressions stood out clearly in his mind: the woman as she now faced him, and as she had appeared to him on a memorable evening.