Scene Third
Chantecler, the Blackbird in his cage, the Cat still asleep on the wall, the Grey Hen behind the Old Hen’s basket.
Chantecler
[To himself, after a pause.] No, I will not trust a frivolous soul
with such a weighty secret. Let me try rather to cast off the burden of
it myself—forget and [Shaking his feathers.] just rejoice in being a
rooster! [He struts up and down.] I am beautiful. I am proud. I
walk—then I stand still. I give a skip or two, I tread a measure.—I
shock the cart sometimes by my boldness with the fair, so that it raises
scandalised shafts in horror to the sky!—Hang care!—A barleycorn—Eat
and be merry.—The gear upon my head and under my eye is a far more
gorgeous red, when I puff out my chest and strut, than any robin’s
waistcoat or finch’s tie.—A fine day. All is well. I curvet—I blow my
horn. Conscious of having done my duty, I may quite properly assume the
swagger of a musketeer, and the calm commanding bearing of a cardinal.
I can—
A Voice
[Loud and gruff.] Beware, Chantecler!
Chantecler
What silly beast is bidding me beware?