CARBON (tying the handkerchief on the staff of his lance):
But—’tis of lace!
A CADET (to the rest):
I could die happy, having seen so sweet a face, if I had something in my stomach—were it but a nut!
CARBON (who has overheard, indignantly):
Shame on you! What, talk of eating when a lovely woman!. . .
ROXANE:
But your camp air is keen; I myself am famished. Pasties, cold fricassée, old wines—there is my bill of fare? Pray bring it all here.
(Consternation.)
A CADET:
All that?
ANOTHER:
But where on earth find it?
ROXANE (quietly):
In my carriage.
ALL:
How?
ROXANE:
Now serve up—carve! Look a little closer at my coachman, gentlemen, and you will recognize a man most welcome. All the sauces can be sent to table hot, if we will!