His wife for an instant did not quite understand what he meant by that, but then she recollected that she had left the summons on her husband’s desk. “I must tell you very emphatically,” she flared up indignantly, “not to put your nose into my private correspondence. If the letter was lying open on the table, you had no right to read it. _I_ never look at _your_ bills.” “Oh, do what you please; but I must request you not to bring the bailiff to my house.” “That is not the worst, _mon cher_, that may happen to you; he will know now at least the way here when he’ll call on you next.” “Hold your tongue, you impudent woman, or I will throw you into the street.” “Many thanks for your kind offer, but I’m going of my own accord.” She left the room, went into her bed-chamber, and retired to rest. Meanwhile on the floor below Borgert was reading a book; but his thoughts were far away. He had serious forebodings that all his creditors, like a pack of hungry wolfhounds, were about to engage in a joint hunt for him, or rather for the money that he didn’t have. He was afraid that the colonel would soon demand the immediate payment of his load of debts, and that, if unable to comply with the order, resignation from the army was the only possible outcome. And what should he do then, without a penny, without any useful knowledge, and with many luxurious habits? Something must be done, he made up his mind, and he was going to employ the next day, a Sunday, to consider once more the various possibilities of raising a large sum, no matter how, to discharge all these liabilities, most of them small in themselves, but in their totality representing quite a fortune. Solaced by the hope that after all some mild hand would open and drop into his lap a small mountain of gold, he fell asleep; the book slipped from his hands, and the lamp on the night table went out after midnight, since Borgert had forgotten to blow it out. He slept restlessly, and bad dreams pursued him. His load of debt developed into a nightmare that was pressing on his chest and threatening to crush out his life. When he awoke in the morning it was past ten. Borgert began to rage. Almost half the day was gone now, and yet he had meant to do so much. Had this ass of a servant again forgotten to wake him? With that his head ached, and he felt nervous and out of sorts. Throwing his dressing-gown loosely about him he went into his servant’s room and found Röse laboriously penning a letter. When his master entered the poor fellow shot out of the seat and stood bolt upright. “Why didn’t you wake me, you beast?” he thundered at him. “I wakened the Herr First Lieutenant at seven o’clock, but the Herr First Lieutenant wanted to continue sleeping and said I need not come back any more to annoy him.”