Chantecler
Come, Patou!—
Patou
In their objectionable jargon, they have the ha-ha on all of us! I am no fastidious King Charles, but I dislike, I tell you, being referred to as His Whiskers!—Oh, to be gone, escape, follow the heels of some poor shepherd without a crust in his wallet, but at least, at evening drinking from the glassy pond, to have—oh, better than all marrow-bones!—the fresh illusion of lapping up the stars!
Chantecler
[Surprised at Patou’s having lowered his voice to utter the last words.] Why do you drop your voice?
Patou
You see?—If we speak of stars nowadays we must do it in a whisper! [He lays his head on his paws in deep dejection.]
Chantecler
[Comforting him.] Be not downcast!
Patou
[Lifting his head again.] No, it is too silly and too weak! I ll shout it if I please! [He howls with the whole power of his lungs.] Stars!—[Then in a tone of relief.] There, I feel better!
Chickens
[Passing at the back, mocking.] Stars!—Ho! Stars for ours! Stars! [They go off, fooling and giggling.]
Patou
Hear them! Our pullets will be whistling soon like blackbirds!
Chantecler
[Proudly strutting up and down.] What care I? Ising, and have on my side the Hens.
Patou
Trust not to the hearts of Hens—or of crowds. You are too willing to take the price of your singing in lip-service.