Dost thou think already of her who sings? Thou laughest dully in this clearing. Dost thou believe that she has been rounded like a round table for the equality of men and weeks? Thou knowest well, the days do not resemble each other. About the round table, the good are no longer equal; one has the sun in his face, it dazzles him and soon quits him for his neighbor. Another has his shadow before him. All are good, and good thou art thyself, but they are no more equal than the day and the night. THE VOICE _Croquemitaine Wears the rose and the lilac The king rides off--Hello Germaine --Croquemitaine Thou wilt come back again_ CRONIAMANTAL The voices of women are always ironical. Is the weather always fair? Someone is already damned instead of me. It is nice in the deep woods. Hearken no longer to the voice of woman! Ask! Ask! THE VOICE --_Hello Germaine I come to love between thine arms --Ah! Sire, our cow is full --Really Germaine --Your servant also, I believe._ CRONIAMANTAL She who sings in order to lure me will be ignorant as I, and dancing with lassitudes. THE VOICE _The cow is full When autumn comes she'll calve Farewell my king Dondidondaine The cow is full And my heart empty without thee_ Croniamantal stands on the tip of his toes to see if he can perceive through the branches the so-beloved who comes. THE VOICE _Dondidondaine But when will come my Croquemitaine At the fountain it is very cold Dondidondaine After the winter I shall be less cold._ In the clearing there appeared a young girl, svelte and brunette. Her countenance was sombre and starred with roving eyes like birds of bright plumage. Her sparse but short hair left her neck bare; her hair was tousled and dark, and by the skipping rope which she carried, Croniamantal recognized her to be Tristouse Ballerinette. CRONIAMANTAL No further, child with bare arms! I shall come to you myself. Someone has just hushed under the pines and will be able to overhear us. TRISTOUSE This one is surely the issue of an egg, like Castor and Pollax. I recall how my mother, who was very foolish, used to talk to me about them of long evenings. The hunter of serpent's eggs, son of the serpent himself,--I am afraid of those old memories. CRONIAMANTAL