“Why this tone to me? And who tells you that I do not pay my bills? You think, I suppose, that I’m squandering my money as you are squandering yours.”
“If you do not wish me to see what the bailiff brings you, you had better not leave it directly under my nose.”
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.