The Guinea-hen
[Listening to the Cochin-china Cock, who is talking in an undertone, thickly surrounded by Hens.] That Cock from Cochin China is simply awful!
Chantecler
[Turning.] Enough!
The Hens
[Around the Cochin Cock, giving little scandalised cries.] Oh!—
The Guinea-hen
[Tickled.] Oh, you naughty bird!—He is quite the most improper of our gallinacea!
Chantecler
[Louder.] Enough!
The Cochin-china Cock
[Stops, and with mocking surprise.] Is it the Gallic Cock objecting?
Chantecler
I am not Gallic if you give the word a base or ridiculous meaning. By Jove! Every Hen here knows whether my trumpet blast belongs to a soprano! But your perverse attempts to wring blushes from little baggages in convenient corners outrage my love of Love! It is true that I care more to retain love’s dream than these Cochin-Chinese, who, courting a giggle, use refinement in coarseness, research in vulgarity; true that my blood has swifter flow in a less ponderous body, and that I am not a feathered pig,—but a Cock!
The Pheasant-hen
Come, come away to the woods,—I love you!
Chantecler
[Looking around him.] Oh, to see a real being appear! Someone simple, someone—
The Magpie
[Announcing.] Two Pigeons!