CRONIAMANTAL
God I am tired, not of walking but of being alone. I am thirsty—not for wine, hydromel or beer, but for water, fresh water from that lovely wood where the grass and the trees are rose at every dawn, but where no spring arrests the progress of the parched traveller. The walk has sharpened my appetite; I am hungry, though not for the flesh nor for fruit, but for bread, good solid bread, swollen like mammals, bread, round as the moon and gilded as she.
He arose then. He went deep into the woods and came to the clearing, where he was to meet Tristouse Ballerinette. The damsel had not yet arrived. Croniamantal longed for a fountain and his imagination, or perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself which he had never suspected, caused a limpid water suddenly to flow among the grass.
Croniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard the voice of a woman singing far off:
Dondidondaine
'Tis the shepherdess beloved of the king
Who has gone to the fountain
Dondidondaine
In the dewy fields, all blossoming
To the fountain
But here comes Croquemitaine
To the fountain
And Hickorydock! advance no further.
CRONIAMANTAL
Dost thou think already of her who sings? Thou laughest dully in this clearing. Dost thou believe that she has been rounded like a round table for the equality of men and weeks? Thou knowest well, the days do not resemble each other.
About the round table, the good are no longer equal; one has the sun in his face, it dazzles him and soon quits him for his neighbor. Another has his shadow before him. All are good, and good thou art thyself, but they are no more equal than the day and the night.
THE VOICE
Croquemitaine
Wears the rose and the lilac
The king rides off—Hello Germaine
—Croquemitaine
Thou wilt come back again