THE NIGHTINGALE I awaken nobody! [_But after the expression of this regret, he continues in an ever higher and more lyrical voice._] What matter? One must sing on! Sing on, even while knowing that there are songs which he prefers to his own song. One must sing,--sing,--sing,--until--[_A shot. A flash from the thicket. Brief silence, then a small, tawny body drops at_ CHANTECLER’S _feet._] CHANTECLER [_Bending and looking._] The Nightingale!--The brutes! [_And without noticing the vague, earliest tremour of daylight spreading through the air, he cries in a sob._] Killed! And he had sung such a little, little while! [_One or two feathers slowly flutter down._] THE PHEASANT-HEN His feathers! CHANTECLER [_Bending over the body which is shaken by a last throe._] Peace, little poet! [_Rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs; from a thicket projects_ PATOU’S _shaggy head._] SCENE SEVENTH _The same_, PATOU, _emerging for a moment from the brush._ CHANTECLER [_To_ PATOU.] You! [_Reproachfully._] You have come to get him? PATOU [_Ashamed._] Forgive me! The poacher compels me-- CHANTECLER [_Who had sprung before the body, to protect it, uncovers it._] A Nightingale! PATOU [_Hanging his head._] Yes. The evil race of man loves to shower lead into a singing tree. CHANTECLER See, the burying beetle has already come. PATOU [_Gently withdrawing._] I will make believe I found nothing. THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Watching the day break._] He has not noticed that night is nearly over. CHANTECLER [_Bending over the grasses which begin to stir about the dead bird._] Insect, where the body has fallen, be swift to come and open the earth. The funereal necrophaga are the only grave-diggers who never carry the dead elsewhere, believing that the least sad, and the most fitting tomb, is the very clay whereon one fell into the final sleep. [_To the funeral insects, while the_ NIGHTINGALE _begins gently to sink into the ground._] Piously dig his grave! Light lie the earth upon him! THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Aside, looking at the horizon._] Over there-- CHANTECLER Verily, verily, I say unto you, Bul-bul to-night shall see the Bird of Paradise! THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Aside._] The sky is turning white! [_A whistle is heard in the distance._] PATOU [_To_ CHANTECLER.] I will come back. He is whistling me. [_Disappears._] THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Restlessly dividing her attention between the horizon and the_ COCK.] How can I conceal from him--[_She moves tenderly toward_ CHANTECLER, _opening her wings so as to hide the brightening East, and taking advantage of his grief._] Come and weep beneath my wing! [_With a sob he lays his head beneath the comforting wing which is quickly clapped over him. And the_ PHEASANT-HEN _gently lulls him, murmuring._] You see that my wing is soft and comforting! You see-- CHANTECLER [_In a smothered voice._] Yes!