saturated with drink, and seized by an access of alcoholic
patriotism, cried: "To our victories over France!"

Drunk as they were, the women were silent, and Rachel turned
round with a shudder, and said: "Look here, I know some
Frenchmen, in whose presence you would not dare to say that." But
the little count, still holding her on his knees, began to laugh,
for the wine had made him very merry, and said: "Ha! ha! ha! I
have never met any of them, myself. As soon as we show ourselves,
they run away!"

The girl, who was in a terrible rage, shouted into his face: "You
are lying, you dirty scoundrel!"

For a moment, he looked at her steadily, with his bright eyes
upon her, as he had looked at the portrait before he destroyed it
with revolver bullets, and then he began to laugh: "Ah! yes, talk
about them, my dear! Should we be here now, if they were brave?"
Then getting excited, he exclaimed: "We are the masters! France
belongs to us!" She jumped off his knees with a bound, and threw
herself into her chair, while he rose, held out his glass over
the table, and repeated: "France and the French, the woods, the
fields, and the houses of France belong to us!"

The others, who were quite drunk, and who were suddenly seized by
military enthusiasm, the enthusiasm of brutes, seized their
glasses, and shouting, "Long live Prussia!" emptied them at a
draught.

The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to silence, and