_] Oh, to be a sound that soothes and lulls!
THE NIGHTINGALE
To be a splendid call to duty!
CHANTECLER
I make nobody weep!
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.
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