you are, Nursie! Good day! [She gazes at him admiringly.] Well, have I grown?
THE OLD HEN
Sooner or later, tadpole becomes toad!
CHANTECLER True! [_To the HENS, resuming his tone of command._] Ladies, stand in line! Your orders are to peck in the fields. Off at a quick-step, go!
THE WHITE HEN [To the GREY HEN.] Are you coming?
THE GREY HEN Not a word! I intend to stay behind, to see the Cuckoo. [She hides behind the basket.]
CHANTECLER You, little tufted hen, was it just my fancy that you looked sulky falling into line?
THE TUFTED HEN [Going up to him.] Cock—
CHANTECLER
What is it?
THE TUFTED HEN
I, who am nearest to your heart—
CHANTECLER [Quickly.] Hush!
THE TUFTED HEN
It annoys me not to be told—
THE WHITE HEN [Who has drawn near on the other side.] Cock—
CHANTECLER
Well?
THE WHITE HEN [Coaxingly.] I who am your favourite—
CHANTECLER [Quickly.] Hush!
THE WHITE HEN [Caressingly.] I want to know—
THE BLACK HEN [Who has softly drawn near.] Cock—
CHANTECLER
What?
THE BLACK HEN
Your special and tender regard for me—
CHANTECLER [Quickly.] Hush!
THE BLACK HEN
Tell me, do—
THE WHITE HEN—the secret—
THE TUFTED HEN—of your song? [Going still closer to him, in a voice thrilled with curiosity.] I do believe that you have in your throat a little copper contrivance—
CHANTECLER
That's it, that's what I have, very carefully concealed!
THE WHITE HEN [Same business.] Most likely, like great tenors one has heard of, you gulp raw eggs—
CHANTECLER
You have guessed!—A second Ugolino!
THE BLACK HEN [Same business.] My idea is that taking snails out of their shells, you pound them to a paste—
CHANTECLER
And make them into troches! Exactly!
ALL THREE HENS
Cock—!
CHANTECLER Off with you all! Be off! [The HENS hastily start, he calls them back.] A word before you go. When your blood-bright combs—now in, now out of sight, now in again—shall flash among the sage and borage yonder, like poppies playing at hide-and-seek—to the real poppies, I enjoin you, do no injury! Shepherdesses, counting the stitches of their knitting, trample the grass all unaware that it's a crime to crush a flower—even with a woman! But you, my Spouses, show considerate and touching thought for the flowers whose only offence is growing wild. The field-carrot has her right to bloom in beauty. Should you spy, as he strolls across some flowery umbel, a scarlet beetle peppered with black dots—the stroller take, but spare his strolling-ground. The flowers of one same meadow are sisters, as I hold, and should together fall beneath the scythe!—Now you may go. [They are leaving, he again calls them back.] And remember, when chickens go to the—
A HEN—fields—
CHANTECLER—the foremost—
THE HENS ALL TOGETHER—walks ahead!
CHANTECLER You may go! [They are again starting, he peremptorily calls them back.] A word! [In a stern voice.] Never when crossing the road stop to peck! [The HENS bow in obedience.] Now let me see you cross!
A HORN [In the distance.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
CHANTECLER [Rushing in front of the HENS and spreading his wings before them.] Not yet!
THE HORN [Very near, accompanied by a terrific snorting.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
CHANTECLER [Barring the HENS' passage, while everything shakes.] Wait!
THE HORN [Far away.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
CHANTECLER [Standing aside for them to pass.] You can safely go!
THE GREY HEN [From her hiding-place.] He has not seen me!
THE TUFTED HEN
You may think this is fun! Now everything we eat will taste of gasoline!
SCENE THIRD
CHANTECLER, the BLACKBIRD in his cage, the CAT still asleep on the wall, the GREY HEN behind the OLD HEN'S basket.
CHANTECLER [To himself, after a pause.] No, I will not trust a frivolous soul with such a weighty secret. Let me try rather to cast off the burden of it myself—forget and [Shaking his feathers.] just rejoice in being a rooster! [He struts up and down.] I am beautiful. I am proud. I walk—then I stand still. I give a skip or two, I tread a measure.—I shock the cart sometimes by my boldness with the fair, so that it raises scandalised shafts in horror to the sky!—Hang care!—A barleycorn—Eat and be merry.—The gear upon my head and under my eye is a far more gorgeous red, when I puff out my chest and strut, than any robin's waistcoat or finch's tie.—A fine day. All is well. I curvet—I blow my horn. Conscious of having done my duty, I may quite properly assume the swagger of a musketeer, and the calm commanding bearing of a cardinal. I can—
A VOICE [Loud and gruff.] Beware, Chantecler!
CHANTECLER
What silly beast is bidding me beware?
SCENE FOURTH
THE SAME, PATOU.
PATOU
