The Blackbird
[Who has again hopped down from his cage.] I must go and tell the Guinea-hen that a golden bird has blown into town. She’ll have a fit! She will invite her! [Off.]
Chantecler
So you come to us from the East, like the Dawn?
The Pheasant-hen
My life has the picturesque disorder of a poem. If I came from the East, it was by way of Egypt.
Patou
[Aside, heart-broken.] A gypsy, on top of the rest!
The Pheasant-hen
[To Chantecler, tossing and twisting her head so that the colours ripple at her throat.] Have you noticed these two shades? They are our own especial colours—the Dawn’s and mine! Princess of the underbrush, queen of the glade, I am pleased to wear the yellow locks of an adventuress. Dreamy and homesick for my unknown home, I choose my palaces among the rustling flags and withered irises that fringe the pool. I dote upon the forest, and when it smells in autumn of dead leaves and decaying wood—
Patou
[In consternation.] She is mad!
The Pheasant-hen
Wild as a tree-bough in a southerly gale, I tremble, flutter, spend myself in motion, till a vast languor overtakes me—
Chantecler
[Who for a minute or so has been letting his wing hang, now begins slowly circling about the Pheasant-hen, in the manner of the Blackbird aping him, with a very gentle, throaty.] Coa—[The Pheasant-hen looks at him. Believing himself encouraged, he takes up again louder, while circling about her.] Coa—
The Pheasant-hen
My dear sir, I prefer to tell you at once that if it is for my benefit you are doing that—
Chantecler
[Stopping short.] What?