Chantecler
And you, if one may so far presume as to question you, of what does he sing to you, Star?
A Voice
[In the sky.] Of the Shepherd!
Chantecler
Ah, what fountain is it—
The Pheasant-hen
[Who is watching the horizon between the trees.] The darkness is lightening.
Chantecler
What fountain, in which each finds water for his thirst? [Listening with greater attention.] To me he speaks of the Day, which arises and shines at my song!
The Pheasant-hen
[Aside.] And speaks of it so eloquently that for once you will forget it!
Chantecler
[Noticing a Bird who having come a little way out of the thicket is beatifically listening.] And how do you, Snipe, translate his poem?
The Snipe
I don’t know. I only know I like it—It is sweet!
The Pheasant-hen
[Who is not lured—she!—into forgetting to watch the sky between the branches, aside.] The night is wearing away!
Chantecler
[To the Nightingale, in a discouraged voice.] To sing! To sing! But how, after hearing the faultless crystal of your note, can I ever be satisfied again with the crude, brazen blare of mine?