THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Surprised.] What?  After he appears, he hears no more from you?

CHANTECLER
No more.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Indignant.] But in that case, perhaps the Sun believes the other
Cocks have made him rise?

CHANTECLER
It matters not.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But—­

CHANTECLER
Hush!  Come to my heart and let me thank you.  Never has there been a
lovelier dawn.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But what will repay you for all your pains?

CHANTECLER Echoes of awakening life down in the valley! [Confused living noises are beginning to mount from below.] Tell me of them.  I have not the strength to listen for myself.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Runs to the top of the rise, and listens.] I hear a finger knocking against the rim of a brazen sky—­

CHANTECLER
[With closed eyes.] The Angelus.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Other strokes, which sound like a human Angelus after the divine—­

CHANTECLER
The forge-hammer.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Lowing,—­then a song—­

CHANTECLER
The plow.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Continuing to listen.] Sounds as of a bird’s nest fallen into the little street—­

CHANTECLER
[With growing emotion.] The school!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Imps of whom I catch no glimpse buffet one another in the water—­

CHANTECLER
Women washing linen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
And suddenly, on all sides, what are they—­iron locusts rubbing their
wings together?

CHANTECLER [Half rising, in the fullness of pride.] Ah, if scythes are whetting, the reapers will soon be harvesting the golden grain! [The sounds increase and mingle:  bells, hammers, washer-women’s wooden spades, laughter, singing, grinding of steel, cracking of whips.] All at work!  And I have done that!—­Oh, impossible!—­Pheasant-hen, help me!  This is the dreadful moment! [He looks wildly about him.] I made the sunrise!  I did!  Wherefore And how?  And where?  No sooner does my reason return—­than I go mad!  For I who believe I have power to rekindle the celestial gold—­I—­well—­oh, it is dreadful—­

THE PHEASANT-HEN
What is?

CHANTECLER
I am humble-minded, modest!  You will never tell?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
No, no!

CHANTECLER
You promise?  Ah! let my enemies never know!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Moved.] Chantecler!

CHANTECLER I feel myself unworthy of my glory.  Why was I chosen, even I, to drive out black night?  No sooner have I brought the heavens to a white glow, than the pride which lifted me aloft drops dead.  I fall to earth.  What, I, so small, I made the immeasurable dawn?  And having done this, I must do it again?  Nay, but I cannot!  Nay, it would be vain!  Never need I attempt it!  Despair overtakes me—­Comfort me, love!