The Pheasant-hen
His feathers!
Chantecler
[Bending over the body which is shaken by a last throe.] Peace, little poet!
[Rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs; from a thicket projects Patou’s shaggy head.]
Scene Seventh
The same, Patou, emerging for a moment from the brush.
Chantecler
[To Patou.] You! [Reproachfully.] You have come to get him?
Patou
[Ashamed.] Forgive me! The poacher compels me—
Chantecler
[Who had sprung before the body, to protect it, uncovers it.] A Nightingale!
Patou
[Hanging his head.] Yes. The evil race of man loves to shower lead into a singing tree.
Chantecler
See, the burying beetle has already come.