Soon the men themselves, intoxicated by that female flesh which was displayed to their sight and touch, grew very amorous, shouted and broke the plates and dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on them stolidly.  The commandant was the only one who put any restraint upon himself.

Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel onto his knees, and, getting excited, at one moment kissed the little black curls on her neck, inhaling the pleasant warmth of her body, and all the savor of her person, through the slight space there was between her dress and her skin, and at another he pinched her furiously through the material, and made her scream, for he was seized by a species of ferocity, and tormented by his desire, to hurt her.  He often held her close to him, as if to make her part of himself, and put his lips in a long kiss on the Jewess’s rosy mouth, until she lost her breath; and at last he bit her until a stream of blood ran down her chin and onto her bodice.

For the second time, she looked him full in the face, and as she bathed the wound, she said:  “You will have to pay for that!” But he merely laughed a hard laugh, and said:  “I will pay.”

At dessert, champagne was served, and the commandant rose, and in the same voice in which he would have drunk to the health of the Empress Augusta, he drank:  “To our ladies!” And a series of toasts began, toasts worthy of the lowest soldiers and of drunkards, mingled with obscene jokes, which were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the language.  They got up, one after another, trying to say something witty, forcing themselves to be funny, and the women, who were so drunk that they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks and clammy tongues, applauded madly each time.

The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an appearance of gallantry to the orgy, raised his glass again, and said:  “To our victories over hearts!” And thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who was a species of bear from the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and saturated with drink, and suddenly seized by an excess of alcoholic patriotism, he 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 knee, 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, like 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?” And 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!”