She can no longer conceal her anger and mortification; it is a wail of indignation, tears, and curses, with hands outstretched to Providence.
_"Pas un pouce de notre terrain; pas une de nos forteresses."_ But she is forced to sing in time with "Mein lieber Augustin." Her melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and dies away.

And only by snatches there is heard again: _"Qu'un sang impur..."_ But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz.

She submits altogether.

It is Jules Favre sobbing on Bismarck's bosom and surrendering every thing....

But at this point Augustin too grows fierce; hoarse sounds are heard; there is a suggestion of countless gallons of beer, of a frenzy of self-glorification, demands for millions, for fine cigars, champagne, and hostages.