RODOLPHE:
I'd really like to, but I'll get cold in my legs.
ZEPHERINA:
Take off your saber.
RODOLPHE:
Miss.
ZEPHERINA:
You will take it back.
RODOLPHE:
Soon! You cannot leave your saber to trifle.
ZEPHERINA:
I would like you to shave your mustaches.
RODOLPHE:
Ah! that no. For goodness sakes, that's contrary to regulations.
ZEPHERINA: But when I have to put a crown of roses on your head, how's that going to look with mustaches?
RODOLPHE: Oh! That's true; that will go ill. And yet I love roses, after the smell of tobacco, it's the best odor I know of.
ZEPHERINA:
Seem to go to sleep.