Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects to bed. Then he and Patou, the dog philosopher, discuss the situation in the farm-yard. Excellent Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. He despises the pert, cynical Blackbird. He denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, the vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, for—— A shot is heard, the Hen Pheasant flies in and implores Chantecler to protect her from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s wing; she looks up at him admiringly, tenderly—and proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there and then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold and red Pheasant. Majestically Chantecler struts round and round her, his chest thrown outwards, his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, the Hen Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an obscure little corner of the world. How different from the beauty, the spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest!
La Faisane.
Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!
Chantecler.
Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!
La Faisane.
Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant.
Chantecler.
Rien n’est pareil,
Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil!