An hour before the departure of the train, a pater familias staying at a summer cottage walks into a friend's house, holding in his hands a glass lamp globe, a toy bicycle, and a child's coffin, and sinks down on the couch, completely exhausted.

“My dear fellow,” he mumbles, out of breath, and senselessly rolling his eyes, “I'd like to ask you a favor. I beg you, lend me your revolver until tomorrow. Be a friend.”

“What do you need a revolver for?”

“I do need it… Oh, Lord! Give me some water. Quickly, some water—I need it. At night I have to drive through dark woods— so, in case anything happens—lend it to me, be so kind.”

The friend looks at the pale, exhausted face of the pater familias, at his perspiring forehead and mad eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.