Chantecler
[Upholding the Pheasant with one wing.] How beautiful he is, with drooping neck and softly ruffled throat-feathers! [He runs to the drinking-trough.] Water!—One almost hesitates to dim such beauty with a wetting—[He splashes him vigorously with his other wing.]
The Golden Pheasant
[Coming to.] I am pursued! Oh, hide me!
The Blackbird
“And the villain still—” Here’s melodrama!
[To the Pheasant.] How the dickens did he manage to miss you?
The Pheasant
Surprise!—The huntsman was looking for a little grey lark. Seeing me rise, he cried, “Thunder!” He saw but a flash of gold, and I a flash of fire.—But the dog is chasing me, a horrible dog—[Seeing Patou he quickly adds.] I am speaking of a hunting-dog! [To Chantecler.] Hide me!
Chantecler
The trouble is he is so conspicuous. That increases our dilemma. Where can he lie concealed?—Gentle sir, my lord, most noble stranger, where might we hope to hide the rainbow, supposing it in danger?
Patou
There by the bench with the beehives stands my green cottage, very much at your service.—Go in, I pray! [The Golden Pheasant goes in, but his long tail projects.] There is too much of this golden vanity!—The tip is still in sight.—I shall have to sit on it.
[Briffaut appears above the wall. Long hanging ears and quivering chops.]
Patou
[To Briffaut, affecting unconcern.] Good afternoon!
Briffaut
[Snuffing.] Humph, what a good smell!