And in the silent farms the roosters cry Cock-a-doodle-doo! It is the hour when the traveller, huddled among the cushions of his coach, Awakes, and peers through the pane, and coughs, and sighs, And souls new-born in the shadows of walls and forests, Uttering feeble cries like little naked birds, Fly back again, guided by flaring meteors, into the regions of obscurity. --What is the hour? TÊTE-D'OR: The night is over. CÉBÈS: It is over!--And the daybreak that kindles the sea to flame and with far-reaching fires Colors the roofs and the towered gateways once again is born. I feel the freshness of the breeze. Open the window! _(TÊTE-D'OR opens it._ _(Prolonged silence._ TÊTE-D'OR: Can you hear me? _(Pause, CÉBÈS turns his eyes towards him and faintly smiles._ TÊTE-D'OR: Can you hear me still? "Put the table under the tree for we shall eat out of doors."--How beautiful the night is! O Cébès, everything is hushed and there is no voice to break the stillness. And like the smell of the cupboard in which the bread is kept and like the breath of the oven when the door of it is opened, There lies before us the plenty of the fields. It is night. The meadow is thick with harvest and far away one can almost hear The swish of the scythe in the lush grass. Already the fires of the routed stars are paling. And the nightingale who sings at intervals When the ascension of the starry heavens above the earth begins.... _(He stops.--CÉBÈS is dead._ _(TÊTE-D'OR remains motionless for an instant, then he lays down the body, shuddering._ Oh, horrible! _(He sits down._ I am alone. I am cold. What difference does it make? Indeed it matters little that he is dead. Why should we mourn? Why should we be disconcerted by anything that may happen? What man of sense would lend himself to such buffoonery? He who bursts into tears and whose head is bowed with his sobbing Will pucker his face into the same wrinkles when he is roaring with laughter. Thus they bawl and contort their mouths. Puppets! --He is dead and I am alone.-- Am I of stone? The leaves of the trees seem made of cloth or iron And all outdoors is a painted scene to be looked at or not at one's pleasure. And this sun, whose earliest rays formerly made me resound Like a stone that clangs against bronze, why, let it rise! I would as soon see the lung of a cow that floats at the door of a slaughter-house! Yes, and like an insensible trunk of coral, I could see my limbs drop from me. Why should I live? I have no concern with life. I find no pleasure in existence. This is not good for me! _(He rises._ To-day! To-day has come and I must show who I am! There is myself to think of! It must be done! Alone against them all! I will march forward and I will maim with the blow of an armored fist the slimy muzzle of bestiality! I will speak before this assembly of slovens and cowards. And either I will perish at their hands or I will found my appointed empire!