Chantecler
And sounding its victory beforehand, my song springs forth so clear, so proud, so peremptory, that the horizon, seized with a rosy trembling—obeys!
The Pheasant-hen
Chantecler!
Chantecler
I sing! Vainly Night offers to compromise, offers a dubious twilight—I sing again! And suddenly—
The Pheasant-hen
Chantecler!
Chantecler
I fall back, blinded by the red light bathing me, dazzled at having, I , the Cock, made the Sun to rise!
The Pheasant-hen
Then the whole secret of your song—?
Chantecler
Is that I dare assume that the East without me must rest in idleness! I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!
The Pheasant-hen
What he says sounds slightly mad!—You are responsible for the rising of—
Chantecler
That which opens flower, eye, soul, and window! Certainly! My voice dispenses light! And when the sky is grey, the reason is that I have sung badly.
The Pheasant-hen
But when you sing by day?