Ardently, enthusiastically, then, Chantecler tells the Hen Pheasant how daylight, as it changes, floods the objects in the farm-yard with ever-varying colours. That geranium is never twice the same red. Patou’s kennel, the sabot stuffed with straw, the rusty old pitchfork—not for two successive moments do they look the same. A rake in a corner, a flower in a vase, as they change colour in the rays of the sun, fill idealistic Chantecler with ecstasy. Still, the Hen Pheasant is not very much impressed. She consents, nevertheless, to pass the night in Patou’s kennel, which the dog-philosopher obligingly gives up to her. Owls, with huge, luminous eyes, appear. Bats dash about in the air. A mole creeps forth. As they love darkness and detest light, they fancy if Chantecler dies the night will last for ever. “I hate him,” they say, one after another.—“Je commence à l’aimer,” says the Hen Pheasant, womanlike, when she thus hears that Chantecler is in danger. Owls, bats, the Cat, the Blackbird and strange night creatures are assembled beneath the branches of a huge tree, when the curtain rises on the second act. The Big Owl chants an Ode to the Night. “Vive la Nuit,” cry his brethren, at intervals, in a hoarse chorus. It is determined that Chantecler must die. At five o’clock in the morning, when the Guinea-Fowl holds a reception, a terrific fighting-cock shall insult, attack and slay Chantecler. “Vive la Nuit,” cry the night-birds, their eyes shining luridly in the darkness. But when a “Cocorico” sounds in the distance the night creatures fly away, and Chantecler, followed by the Hen Pheasant, struts on to the dim stage. “Tell me,” pleads the Pheasant, “the secret of your power.” At first Chantecler refuses, then hesitates, then in a glorious outburst he declares that the sun cannot rise until he has sung his song. It is perhaps the noblest, the most exquisite passage in the play. Here is the last verse: Je pense à la lumière, et non pas à la gloire, Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire. Et si de tous les chants mon chant est le plus fier, C’est que je chante clair afin qu’il fasse clair. “But if,” asks the Hen Pheasant, “the skies are clouded and grey?” _Chantecler._ Si le ciel est gris, c’est que j’ai mal chanté. _La Faisane._ Il est tellement beau, qu’il semble avoir raison.