_Jean-Baptiste_. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But the grandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they are now a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other nations, so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather says they are not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans. The world will not believe their word again. They speak not the truth. Once they nearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is looked to by all nations that never again shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly, and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked. That is what the grandfather says. _Angelique_. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are so bad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished. _Jean-Baptiste_. (_Sternly_.) It is the truth. One is always punished. As long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But as long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name of America, one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They left their dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France from the wicked Germans. _Angelique_. (_Lip trembles_.) I'm sorry--they died. _Jean-Baptiste_. But, _p'tite!_ That was one hundred years ago. It is necessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It was more glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just to die--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. But look! You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to the roots--not a rock? _Angelique_. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her hands and knocks dirt from it.) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste? _Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything, don't you see, Angelique? It's just something of one of the Americans who died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these old battle-fields. _Angelique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sand and rubs it on the object. Spits on it and rubs the sand_.) _V'la_, Jean-B'tiste--it shines. _Jean-Baptiste_. (_Loftily_.) Yes. It is nothing, that. One finds such things. _Angelique._ (_Rubbing more_.) And there are letters on it. _Jean-Baptiste_. Yes. It is nothing, that. One has flowers _en masse_ now, and it is time to go home. Come then, _p'tite_, drop the dirty bit of brass and pick up your pretty flowers. _Tiens!_ Give me your hand. I'll pull you up the side of the ditch. (_Jean-Baptiste turns as they start_.) I forgot the thing which the grandfather told me I must do always. (_He stands at attention_.) _Au revoir_, brave Americans. One salutes your immortal glory. (_Exit Jean-Baptiste and Angelique_.) THIRD ACT