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!