THE PHEASANT-HEN
But how find courage to work after doubting the work’s value?

CHANTECLER
Buckle down to work!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [With angry stubbornness.] But if you have nothing whatever to do with making the morning?

CHANTECLER Then I am just the Cock of a remoter Sun!  My cries so affect the night that it lets certain beams of the day pierce through its black tent, and those are what we call the stars.  I shall not live to see shining upon the steeples that final total light composed of stars clustered in unbroken mass; but if I sing faithfully and sonorously and if, long after me, and long after that, in every farmyard its Cock sings faithfully, sonorously, I truly believe there will be no more night!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
When will that be?

CHANTECLER
One Day!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Go, go, and forget our forest!

CHANTECLER No, I shall never forget the noble green forest where I learned that he who has witnessed the death of his dream must either die at once or else arise stronger than before.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [In a voice which she does her best to make insulting.] Go and get into your hen-house by the way of a ladder.

CHANTECLER
The birds have taught me that I can use my wings to go in.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Go and see your old Hen in her old broken basket.

CHANTECLER Ah, forest of the Toads, forest of the Poacher, forest of the Nightingale, and of the Pheasant-hen, when my old peasant mother sees me home again, back from your green recesses where pain is so interwoven with love, what will she say?

PATOU [Imitating the OLD HEN’S affectionate quaver.] How that Chick has grown!

CHANTECLER
[Emphatically.] Of course she will! [Turning to leave.]

THE PHEASANT-HEN
He is going!  When faithless they turn to leave, oh, that we had arms,
arms to hold them fast,—­but we have only wings!

CHANTECLER
[Stops short and looks at her, troubled.] She weeps?

PATOU
[Hastily, pushing him along with his paw.] Hurry up!

CHANTECLER
[To PATOU.] Wait a moment.

PATOU
I am willing.  Nothing can sit so patiently and watch the dropping of
tears as an old dog.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Crying to CHANTECLER, with a leap toward him.] Take me with you!

CHANTECLER [Turns and in an inflexible voice.] Will you consent to stand second to the Dawn?

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Fiercely drawing back.] Never!

CHANTECLER
Then farewell!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
I hate you!

CHANTECLER [Already at some distance among the brush.] I love you, but I should poorly serve the work to which I devote myself anew at the side of one to whom it were less than the greatest thing in the world! [He disappears.]