If strength were to take precedence of other zoological attributes, the Scoliæ would reign in the first rank, in the order of the Hymenoptera. Some of them can be compared in size with the little orange-crested northern Wren, the Kinglet, who comes down to us, to visit the maggoty buds, at the time of the first autumnal mists. The largest, the most imposing of our sting-carriers, the Humble-bee, the Hornet, cut a poor figure beside certain Scoliæ. Among this group of giants, my region boasts the Common or Garden Scolia (Scolia Hortorum, van der Lind), who exceeds four centimetres1 in length and measures ten2 from tip to tip of her outstretched wings, and the Hemorrhoidal Scolia (Scolia Hemorrhoïdalis, van der Lind), who vies in dimensions with the Garden Scolia and is distinguished from her, in the main, by the brush of red bristles at the tip of her belly.

A black livery, with broad yellow patches; tough wings amber as an onion-skin and shot with purple reflections; coarse, knotted legs, bristling with rugged hairs; a massive build; a powerful head, helmeted with a hard skull; a stiff and clumsy gait; a short, silent flight, devoid of soaring qualities: this, in few words, describes the [144]appearance of the female, powerfully equipped for her severe task. That love-lorn idler, the male, is more gracefully horned, more daintily clad, more elegantly shaped, without altogether losing the character of sturdiness which is the predominant feature in his mate.

It is not without qualms that the insect-collector finds himself for the first time in the presence of the Garden Scolia. How is he to capture the commanding brute, how to protect himself against its sting? If the effect of the sting be in proportion to the Hymenopteron’s size, then a prick from the Scolia is something to be dreaded. The Hornet, once he lugs out, hurts us atrociously. What, then, would it be like if one were stabbed by this colossus? The prospect of a swelling the size of your fist and as painful as though it were blistered by a red-hot iron passes through your mind, just as you are about to cast the net. And you refrain, you beat a retreat, only too glad not to have aroused the attention of the dangerous animal.

Yes, I confess to having quailed before my first Scoliæ, eager though I was to enrich my incipient collection with this glorious insect. Smarting recollections left behind by the Wasp and the Hornet had something to say to this excessive prudence. I say excessive, for to-day, taught by long experience, I have got the better of my former fears and, if I see a Scolia resting on a thistle-head, I have no scruples about taking her in the tips of my fingers, with no precaution of any kind, threatening though her aspect be. My pluck is only apparent, as I am pleased to inform the novice at Hymenopteron-hunting. The Scoliæ are very peaceful. Their sting is an implement of work much rather than a weapon of war: they use it to paralyze the prey intended for their family; and only in the last [145]extremity do they employ it in their own defence. Moreover, the lack of suppleness in their movements enables one nearly always to avoid the sting; and, lastly, if one were stung, the pain of the prick is almost insignificant. This absence of a bitter smart in the poison is a pretty constant fact among the game-hunting Hymenoptera, whose weapon is a surgical lancet intended for the most delicate physiological operations.

Among the other Scoliæ of my district, I will mention the middle-sized Two-banded Scolia (Scolia Bifasciata, van der Lind), whom I see yearly, in September, exploiting the manure-heaps of dead leaves arranged, for her benefit, in a corner of my yard. Let us watch her performance comfortably indoors.

After the Cerceris, it is well to study others, hunting an unarmed prey, a prey vulnerable at all points save the skull, but giving only a single prick with the sting. Of these two conditions, the Scoliæ fulfilled one, with their regulation game, the soft grub of Cetonia, Oryctes or Anoxia, according to their species. Did they fulfil the second? I was convinced beforehand, judging from the anatomy of the victims, with its concentrated nervous system, that the sting was unsheathed but once; I even foresaw the point in which the weapon must be thrust.

These were statements dictated by the anatomist’s scalpel, without the least direct proof from observed facts. Stratagems accomplished underground escaped the eye and seemed to me bound always to escape it. How, indeed, could one hope that an animal whose art is practised in the darkness of a manure-heap should be persuaded to work in the full light of day? I did not reckon on it in the least. Nevertheless, for conscience’ sake, I tried putting the Scolia in touch with her quarry [146]under glass. And it was well that I did so, for my success was in the inverse ratio to my expectations. Never did beast of prey show greater zeal in attacking under artificial conditions. Every insect experimented upon rewarded me, sooner or later, for my patience. Let us watch Scolia Bifasciata at work, operating on her Cetonia grub.

The captive grub tries to escape its terrible neighbour. Turned over on its back according to its custom, it shuffles along eagerly, going round and round the glass arena. Soon, the Scolia’s attention is aroused and is evinced by continual little taps of the tips of its antennæ upon the table, which now represents the customary soil. The Hymenopteron falls upon her prey and attacks the monstrous meal by the hinder end. She climbs upon the Cetonia, using the abdominal extremity as a lever. The assaulted grub does nothing but scud all the faster on its back, without rolling itself into a defensive posture. The Scolia reaches the front part, after falls and accidents that vary greatly, according to the degree of tolerance of the grub, her temporary mount. With her mandibles, she nips a point on the upper surface of the thorax; she places herself across the grub, curves herself into an arch and tries to touch with the point of her belly the region where the sting is to be darted. The arch is a little too short to embrace almost the whole circuit of the corpulent prey, for which reason the efforts and attempts are made over and over again, at great length. The tip of the abdomen makes untold exertions, applies itself here, there and elsewhere and, as yet, stops nowhere. This tenacious searching in itself proves the importance which the paralyzer attaches to the spot at which its bistoury is to enter.

Meanwhile, the grub continues to move along on its [147]back. Suddenly, it buckles and, with a jerk of the head, flings the enemy to a distance. Undaunted by all her failures, the Hymenopteron stands up, brushes her wings and recommences the assault of the colossus, almost always by clambering on the grub by the rear extremity. At last, after any number of fruitless attempts, the Scolia succeeds in attaining the proper position. She lies across the grub; her mandibles hold a point of the thorax on the dorsal face tight-gripped; her body, curved into an arch, passes under the grub and reaches the neighbourhood of the neck with the tip of the belly. Placed in grave danger, the Cetonia twists, buckles, unbuckles, turns and writhes. The Scolia does not interfere. Holding her victim in a close embrace, she turns with it, allows herself to be dragged above, below, aside, at the mercy of the contortions. So fierce is her determination that I am now able to remove the glass bell and watch the details of the drama in the open.

Soon, notwithstanding the tumult, the tip of the Scolia’s belly feels that the suitable point is found. Then and not till then is the dart unsheathed. It is driven home. The thing is done. The grub, but now active and swollen, suddenly becomes inert and limp. It is paralyzed. Henceforth, all movement ceases, save in the antennæ and mouth-pieces, which will continue for a long time to declare a remnant of life.

The place of the wound has never varied in the series of struggles under the glass bell: it occupies the middle of the dividing line between the prothorax and the mesothorax, on the ventral surface. Let us observe that the Cerceris, who operates upon Weevils, which insects have a concentrated nervous chain like that of the Cetonia grub, inserts her sting at the same point. The similarity of the [148]nervous organization occasions a similarity of method. Let us observe also that the sting of the Scolia remains for some time in the wound and rummages with a pronounced persistency. To judge by the movements of the tip of the abdomen, one would say that the weapon is exploring and selecting. Free to turn about as it pleases within narrow limits, the sting’s point is probably searching for the little bundle of nerves which it must prick, or at least sprinkle with poison, in order to obtain a withering paralysis.

I will not end my report of the duel without relating a few more facts, of minor importance. The Two-banded Scolia is an ardent persecutor of the Cetonia. At one sitting, the same mother stabs three grubs, one after the other, before my eyes. She refuses the fourth, perhaps through fatigue, or because her poison-phial is exhausted. Her refusal is but temporary. The next day, she begins anew and paralyzes two worms; the following day again, but with a zeal that diminishes from day to day.

The other predatory insects that go on long hunting-expeditions embrace the prey which they have rendered lifeless, drag it, convey it, each in its own fashion, and, laden with their burden, long try to escape from the bell and to reach the burrow. Disheartened by vain attempts, they abandon it at last. The Scolia does not move her prey, which lies indefinitely on its back at the spot of sacrifice. After drawing her dagger from the wound, she leaves her victim alone and starts fluttering against the walls of the bell, without troubling about it further. Things must happen in the same way in the manure-heap, under normal conditions. The paralyzed morsel is not carried elsewhither, to a special cellar: where the struggle occurred, there it receives, on its spread [149]belly, the egg whence the consumer of the succulent dainty will presently emerge. This saves the expense of a house. It goes without saying that the Scolia does not lay under glass: the mother is too prudent to expose her egg to the dangers of the open air.

A second detail strikes me: the fierce persistency of the Scolia. I have seen the fight prolonged for a good quarter of an hour, with frequent alternations of successes and reverses, before the Hymenopteron achieved the requisite position and reached with the tip of her belly the point at which the sting must enter. During her assaults, which are resumed as soon as repelled, the aggressor repeatedly applies the extremity of her abdomen against the grub, but without unsheathing; for I should perceive this by the start of the animal injured by the prick. The Scolia, therefore, does not sting the Cetonia anywhere until the desired point offers beneath the weapon. The fact that no wounds are made elsewhere is not in any way due to the structure of the grub, which is soft and penetrable at all points, except the skull. The spot sought by the sting is no less well-protected than the others by the dermal wrapper.

In the struggle, the Scolia, curved archwise, is sometimes caught in the vice of the Cetonia, which forcibly contracts and buckles itself. Heedless of the rough embrace, the Hymenopteron does not let go with either her teeth or her ventral tip. Then follows a confused scuffle between the two locked insects, of which first one and next the other is on the top. When the grub succeeds in ridding itself of its enemy, it unrolls itself afresh, stretches itself at full length and proceeds to paddle along on its back with all possible speed. Its defensive artifices amount to no more than this. At an earlier [150]period, when I had not yet seen for myself and was obliged to take probability for my guide, I was willing to grant it the trick of the hedgehog, who rolls himself into a ball and defies the dog. I thought that, doubled up, with a force which my fingers had some difficulty in overcoming, it would in like manner defy the Scolia, who was powerless to unroll it and disdainful of any point but that of her choice. I wished the grub to possess and I believed that it did possess this very simple and efficacious means of defence. But I had too great confidence in its ingenuity. Instead of copying the hedgehog and remaining contracted, it flees with its belly in the air; foolishly, it adopts the very posture which allows the Scolia to make the assault and to reach the point at which the fatal blow is struck.

Let us pass on to others. I have just captured an Interrupted Scolia (Colpa Interrupta, Latr.), exploring the sands, no doubt in quest of game. It is important to make use of her as soon as may be, before her ardour has been cooled by the tedium of captivity. I know her prey, the grub of Anoxia Australis; I know, from my old habits of digging, the spots beloved by the worm: the sand-dunes heaped by the wind at the foot of the rosemary-shrubs on the slopes of the neighbouring hills. It will be hard work finding it, for nothing is rarer than a common thing, when it is needed in a hurry. I call in the aid of my father, an old man of ninety, but still straight as a wand. Shouldering a shovel and a three-pronged luchet, we set out under a sun in which you could cook an egg. Exerting our feeble powers in turns, we cut a trench in the sand where I hope to find the Anoxia. My hopes are not disappointed. In the sweat of my brow—never was truer word spoken—after shifting and sifting [151]through my fingers at least two cubic yards of sandy soil, I am the fortunate possessor of two grubs. Had I not wanted them, I should have dug them up by the handful! However, my lean and costly harvest is sufficient for the moment. To-morrow, I shall send stronger arms to continue the digging.

And now let us repay ourselves for our trouble by witnessing the drama under glass. Heavy and clumsy in her ways, the Scolia moves slowly round the arena. At the sight of the game, her attention wakes up. The fight is heralded by the same preparations as those displayed by the Two-banded Scolia: the Hymenopteron polishes her wings and taps the table with the tips of her antennæ. And now, up, lads, and at ’em! The attack begins. Unfit to move over a flat surface, because of its short, weak legs; lacking, moreover, the Cetonia’s eccentric means of locomotion on its back, the big-bellied worm does not dream of running away: it rolls itself up. The Scolia, with her powerful nippers, grabs its skin, now at once place, now at another. Buckled into an arch whose two ends almost meet, she strives to thrust the tip of her belly into the narrow opening of the volute formed by the grub. The fight is conducted quite calmly, without hard blows and with varying fortunes. It represents the obstinate attempt of a live split ring trying to slip one of its ends into another live split ring, which displays an equal obstinacy in remaining closed. The Scolia holds the game in subjection with her legs and mandibles; she makes her attempt first on one side and then on the other, without succeeding in unrolling the torus, which becomes the more contracted the more it feels itself in danger. The actual circumstances make the operation difficult: the prey slips and rolls over the table, when the insect [152]goes for it too briskly; points of support are wanting and the sting cannot reach the desired spot; for over an hour, one vain attempt follows upon the other, divided by spells of rest, during which the two adversaries look like two narrow rings wound one inside the other.

What ought the sturdy Cetonia grub to do in order to defy the Two-banded Scolia, who is nothing like so strong as her victim? Imitate the Anoxia, of course, and remain rolled up like a hedgehog until the enemy retreats. It tries to flee, unrolls itself and thus causes its own undoing. The other does not budge from its defensive posture and resists successfully. Is this due to acquired prudence? No, but to the impossibility of acting otherwise on the polished surface of a table. Heavy, obese, weak-legged, bent into a hook after the manner of the common white maggot, the Anoxia grub is unable to shift its position on a smooth surface; it flounders painfully, lying on its side. What it wants is the shifting soil wherein, using its mandibles as a spade, it digs and buries itself.

Let us try if sand will shorten the battle, of which the end does not yet seem in sight after an hour’s waiting. I lightly sprinkle the arena. The attack is resumed more fiercely than ever. The grub, feeling the sand, its natural dwelling-place, now also tries to slip away, the reckless one! What did I tell you? Its torus does not represent acquired prudence, but the necessity of the moment. The harsh experience of past misfortunes has not yet taught it the precious advantage which it would derive from its volute kept closed as long as danger lasts. Besides, not all are equally cautious on the firm support of my table. The biggest even seem ignorant of what they understood so well in their youth: the art of self-defence by rolling one’s self in a ball. [153]

I take up my story again with a fine-sized quarry, less liable to slip under the Scolia’s pushes. The grub, when assailed, does not curl up, does not contract into a ring, like its predecessor, which was younger and but half its size. It tosses about clumsily, lying on its side, half-opened. Its only attempt at defence is to wriggle; it opens, closes and reopens its big mandibular hooks. The Scolia grabs it at random, winds her rough, hairy legs around it and, for nearly fifteen minutes, strives her hardest atop of the rich dainty.

At last, after a series of not very riotous affrays, the favourable position is gained, the propitious moment arrives and the sting is planted in the grub’s thorax, at a central spot, under the neck and level with the fore-legs. The effect is instantaneous: total inertia, save in the appendages of the head, the antennæ and mouth-pieces. I find the same results, the same prick at a precise, invariable spot, among my different operators, captured from time to time with a successful stroke of the net.

Let us say, in conclusion, that the attack delivered by the Interrupted Scolia is much less fiery than that of her two-banded sister. This rough, sand-digging Hymenopteron has a clumsy gait and stiff, almost automatic movements. She does not easily repeat her dagger-thrust. Most of those with whom I experimented refused a second victim on the day after their exploits and on the following day. Half-asleep, they grew excited only when stimulated through my teasing them with a straw. Nor does the Two-banded Scolia, that more agile, more enthusiastic huntress, invariably unsheath when invited so to do. All those Nimrods are liable to moments of inaction which the presence of a new prey will not succeed in disturbing. [154]

The Scoliæ have taught me no more than I have said, for lack of subjects belonging to other species. No matter: the results obtained constitute, to my mind, no small triumph. After seeing the Scoliæ at work, I said to myself, guided merely by the anatomical structure of the victims, that the grubs of Cetonia, of Anoxia, of Oryctes must be paralyzed with a single prick of the sting; I even specified the point at which the dagger had to strike, a central point in the immediate neighbourhood of the fore-legs. Of the three kinds of sacrificers, two allowed me to be present at their surgical operation, which the third, I am certain, will not contradict. In both cases, a single blow of the lancet; in both cases, an inoculation with the poison at the place settled in advance. No calculator in an observatory could show greater accuracy in foretelling the position of his planet. An idea may be considered proved when it attains this mathematical anticipation of the future, this positive knowledge of the unknown. When will the extollers of chance achieve a like success? Order calls for order; and chance has no rule. [155]

The non-cuirassed victims, pervious to the sting over almost the whole of their body, such as Common Caterpillars and “Land-surveying” Caterpillars, Cetonia and Anoxia grubs, whose sole means of defence, apart from their mandibles, consists in rollings and contortions, summoned another prey to my glass bell: the Spider, almost as ill-protected, but armed with formidable poison-fangs. How, more particularly, does the Ringed Calicurgus, or Pompilus, set to work to deal with the black-bellied Tarantula, the terrible Lycosa Narbonensis, who slays mole and sparrow with a bite and imperils the life of man? How does the bold Pompilus overcome an adversary stronger than herself, better-endowed in virulence of poison and capable of making a meal of her assailant? Among the hunting insects, none faces such disproportionate contests, in which appearances seem to point to the aggressor as the prey and to the prey as the aggressor.

The problem deserved patient study. True, judging by the Spider’s structure, I anticipated a single stab in the centre of the thorax; but this did not explain the victory of the Hymenopteron, emerging safe and sound from her encounter with a quarry of that description. The matter must be looked into. The chief difficulty is the [158]scarcity of the Calicurgus. To obtain the Tarantula is easy enough: the part of the neighbouring upland as yet untilled by the vine-planters supplies me with as many as I need. To capture the Calicurgus is a different story. I count upon her so little that I consider a special search quite useless. To look for one would, perhaps, be the very way not to find one. Let us leave it to chance to decide whether I shall have one or not.

I have one. I caught her unexpectedly on the flowers. The next day, I lay in a stock of half-a-dozen Tarantulas. Perhaps I shall be able to use them one after the other, in repeated duels. On my return from my expedition in search of Lycosæ, chance smiles upon me again and gratifies my desires to the full. A second Calicurgus presents herself before my net: she is dragging her heavy, paralyzed Arachnid by the leg, in the dust of the high-road. I set great store by my find: there is an urgency about laying the egg; and I believe that the mother will accept an exchange without much hesitation.

So behold my two captives, each under a glass bell with her Tarantula. I am all eyes. What a drama I may expect, in a moment! I wait, anxiously.… But … but … what is this? Which of the two is the attacker? Which of the two the attacked? The characters seem inverted. The Calicurgus, unfit for climbing up the smooth walls of the bell, strides along the outer circumference of the arena. With proud, swift gait and quivering wings and antennæ, she comes and goes. She soon sets eyes upon the Lycosa, marches up to her without the least sign of fear, turns around her and seems about to seize one of her legs. But, at that moment, the Tarantula rises almost perpendicularly, using her four hind-legs to stand upon and her four front-legs erect, [159]outspread, ready to thrust and parry. The poison-fangs yawn wide: a drop of venom hangs from their point. The mere sight of them makes my flesh creep. In this terrible attitude, presenting her powerful chest and the black velvet of her belly to her enemy, the Arachnid overawes the Pompilus, who abruptly turns to the right-about and retreats. The Lycosa then closes her case of poisoned daggers and returns to her natural position, standing on her eight legs; but, at the least aggressive movement on the part of the Hymenopteron, she resumes her threatening posture.

Nay, she does better: suddenly, she leaps and flings herself upon the Calicurgus, grapples with her nimbly and gnaws her with her fangs. The other, without replying with her sting, releases herself and emerges unscathed from the fierce encounter. Time after time, I witness the attack; and nothing serious ever happens to the Hymenopteron, who quickly extricates herself and seems to have felt nothing. Her manœuvres are resumed as boldly and swiftly as at the start.

Does this mean that the creature escaping from the terrible fangs is invulnerable? Obviously not. A real bite would be fatal to her. Big, tough Acridians succumb: why should not she, with her delicate organization, succumb as well? The Arachnid’s daggers, therefore, make vain feints; their points do not enter the antagonist’s flesh. If the blows were real, I should see bleeding wounds, I should see the fangs closed for a moment upon the point seized, whereas all my watchfulness fails to perceive anything of the sort. Are the fangs powerless, then, to pierce the Calicurgus’ envelope? Not that either. I have seen them go through the corselet of the Acridians, which possesses much greater resisting [160]power and which cracks like a broken breastplate. Once more, whence comes this strange immunity of the Calicurgus between the legs and under the daggers of the Tarantula? I do not know. At a time when she is in mortal danger in front of her enemy, the Lycosa threatens her with her fangs and cannot bring herself to bite, prevented by a reluctance which I do not undertake to explain.

Seeing that I am obtaining nothing but alarms and scrimmages devoid of seriousness, I decide to alter the conditions of the prize-ring and to make it resemble more closely the natural state. My work-table is but a poor substitute for the soil; besides, the Arachnid has not her stronghold, her burrow, which maybe plays a part of some importance in both attack and defence. A stump of reed is stuck perpendicularly in a large pan filled with earth. This shall represent the Lycosa’s pit. In the middle, I plant a few heads of echinops, made appetizing with honey, as a refectory for the Pompilus; a pair of Crickets, renewed as soon as consumed, shall keep up the strength of the Tarantula. This comfortable abode, exposed to the sun, receives the two captives under a woven-wire cover, well-ventilated and suitable for a long stay.

My artifices lead to no result; the session ends without business done. A day passes, two days, three days; and still nothing. The Calicurgus is unremitting in her attentions to the honeyed thistle-heads; the Tarantula calmly nibbles away at her Cricket. If the other comes within reach of her, she quickly draws herself up and, with a gesture, orders her to be off. The artificial burrow, the reed-stump, fulfils its purpose nicely. Lycosa and Calicurgus take refuge in it by turns, but without quarrelling. [161]And that is all. The drama of which the prologue promised so well now seems to me indefinitely postponed.

A last resource remains; and I base great hopes upon it. This is to move my Calicurgi to the very spot of their investigations and to install them at the door of the Arachnid’s house, above the natural burrow. I take the field with an apparatus which I am dragging for the first time into the open, consisting of a glass cover, another of woven wire, together with the different instruments necessary to handle and shift my irascible and dangerous subjects. My search for burrows among the pebbles and the tufts of thyme and lavender soon meets with success.

Here is a splendid one. The insertion of a straw informs me that it is inhabited by a Tarantula of a size suited to my plans. I sweep and flatten down the neighbourhood of the orifice to receive the wire bell, under which I place a Pompilus. This is a fitting moment to light one’s pipe and wait, stretched on the pebbles.… A further disappointment! Half an hour passes and the Hymenopteron confines herself to turning round the wire, as she did in my study. Not a sign of cupidity on her part in the presence of that burrow at the bottom of which I see the Tarantula’s diamond eyes gleaming.

The wire-work enclosure is replaced by one of glass, the walls of which cannot be scaled, thus obliging the insect to remain on the ground and at last to take notice of the pit, which it seems to ignore. This time, we are more successful. After a few strolls round the circuit, the Calicurgus casts eyes upon the cavity that yawns beneath her feet. She goes down it. This boldness staggers me. I should never have dared expect as much as that. To fling yourself suddenly upon the Tarantula when she is outside her domain is all very well; but to [162]plunge into the lair when the terrible animal is waiting for you there with her double poisoned dagger! What will come of this temerity? A flutter of wings rises from the depths. Run to earth in her private apartments, the Lycosa is doubtless struggling with the intruder. That noise of wings is the song of victory of the Calicurgus, unless, indeed, it be her death-song. The murderer may well be the murdered. Which of the two will emerge from below alive?

It is the Lycosa, who hurriedly scampers out and takes up her stand at the entrance to the burrow in her position of defence, with her fangs open and her four front-legs outstretched. Is the other stabbed? Not at all, for she comes out forthwith, not without receiving a cuff, as she passes, from the Arachnid, who at once returns to her den. Dislodged from the basement a second and a third time, the Tarantula always comes up again without a wound, always waits for the invader on the door-sill, administers punishment and pops in again. In vain I alternate my two Pompili and change the burrow: I do not succeed in seeing anything more. Certain conditions, which my stratagems fail to realize, are lacking to the fulfilment of the drama.

Discouraged by the repetition of my fruitless experiments, I throw up the game, having gained, however, a fact of some value: the Calicurgus descends, without the least fear, into the Tarantula’s den and turns her out. I imagine that things happen in the same way outside my bells. Evicted from her home, the Arachnid is more timorous and lends herself better to the attack. Besides, in the constraint of a narrow burrow, the operator would not be able to wield her lancet with the precision which her plans demand. The bold incursion shows us once again, more clearly than the hand-to-hand encounters on my [163]table, the Lycosa’s reluctance to drive her fangs into her adversary. When the two are face to face at the bottom of the lair, that surely would be the time of times to have a word with the enemy. The Tarantula is at home; every nook and corner of the bastion is familiar to her. The intruder is constrained in her movements; she does not know her way about. Quick, a bite, my poor Lycosa, and your persecutor’s done for! You refrain, I know not why; and your reluctance is the rash one’s salvation. The silly sheep does not reply to the butcher’s knife with a butt from his horned forehead. Can you be the sheep of the Calicurgus?

My two subjects are once more installed in my study, under their wire domes, with the bed of sand, the reed-stump burrow and renewed honey. They here find their first Lycosæ, feeding on crickets. The cohabitation extends over three weeks, without other incidents than scrimmages and threatenings, which become rarer from day to day. No serious hostility on either side. At last, the Calicurgi die: their day is past. A pitiful ending to a spirited start.

Shall I abandon the problem? Oh, no! It is not the first that has been unable to deter me from an eagerly-cherished plan. Fortune favours the persevering. She proves this by offering me, in September, a fortnight after the death of my Tarantula-hunters, a different Calicurgus, captured for the first time. It is Calicurgus Curra, clad in the same showy style as her predecessors and almost of the same size.

I know nothing about the new-comer: I wonder what she would like. A spider, that is certain: but which? A huntress of her build calls for big game: perhaps the Silky Epeira, perhaps the Banded Epeira, the two fattest Arachnids in the country, next to the Tarantula. The [164]first hangs her great vertical web, in which the Crickets are caught, from one brake of brushwood to the next. I shall find her in the copses on the adjacent hills. The other stretches hers across the ditches and little water-courses frequented by the Dragon-flies. I shall find her near the Aygues, on the bank of the irrigation-canals fed by that torrent. Two excursions procure me the two Epeiræ. Next day, I offer them together to my captive, who shall choose according to her tastes.

The choice is soon made: Epeira Fasciata obtains the preference. But she does not yield without protest. At the Hymenopteron’s approach, she draws herself up and assumes a defensive attitude copied from that of the Lycosa. The Calicurgus does not mind the threats: under her harlequin attire, she is quick to strike and swift of foot. A few brisk cuffs are exchanged and the Epeira lies overturned on her back. The Calicurgus is on top of her, belly to belly, head to head; with her legs, she overpowers the Arachnid’s legs; with her mandibles, she grips the cephalothorax. She curves her abdomen vigorously, bringing it underneath; she draws her sting and.…

One moment, reader, if you please. Where is the sting going to penetrate? According to what we have learnt from the other paralyzers, it will be in the chest, to destroy the movement of the legs. You think so? I believed it too. Well, without wasting time in apologizing for our very excusable common error, let us confess that the animal is cleverer than we are. It knows how to make certain of success by means of a preparatory trick which you and I had not thought of. Oh, what a school is that of the animals! Is it not a fact that, before striking the adversary, it is wise to take steps not to be hit yourself? Calicurgus Scurra does not disregard this [165]counsel of prudence. The Epeira carries under her throat two sharp daggers, with a drop of poison at the tip; the Calicurgus is lost if the Arachnid bite her. Nevertheless, her anæsthetizing operation requires perfect security of the lancet. What is to be done in this peril, which would perplex the most confident surgeon? We must first disarm the patient and operate upon him later.

Behold, the Calicurgus’ sting, aimed from back to front, enters the Epeira’s mouth, with minute precautions and emphatic persistency. Upon the instant, the poison-fangs close limply and the formidable prey is rendered harmless. The Hymenopteron’s abdomen then extends its arch and drives in the needle behind the fourth pair of legs, on the median line, almost at the juncture of the belly. The skin is thinner and more easily penetrable at this spot than elsewhere. The rest of the chest is covered with a firm breast-plate, which the sting would perhaps not succeed in perforating. The nerve-centres, the seat of the movement of the legs, are situated a little higher than the wounded spot; but the aiming of the weapon from back to front enables it to reach them. This last blow produces paralysis of the eight legs together.

To enlarge upon the proceeding would spoil the eloquence of this manœuvre. First, for the protection of the operator, a stab in the mouth, that fearsomely armed point, to be dreaded above all others; next, for the protection of the grub, a second stab in the nerve-centres of the thorax, to destroy all movement. I suspected indeed that the sacrificers of powerful Arachnids were endowed with special talents; but I was far from expecting their daring logic, which disarms before it paralyzes. This must also be the scheme followed by the Tarantula-huntress, who refused to disclose her secret under my bells. I know her method now, divulged as it is by a [166]colleague. She turns the horrible Lycosa on her back, deadens her daggers by stinging her in the mouth and then, with a single prick of the needle, contrives the paralysis of the legs at her ease.

I examine the Epeira immediately after the operation and the Tarantula when the Calicurgus drags her by one leg to her burrow, at the foot of a wall. For a little while longer, a minute at most, the Epeira convulsively moves her legs. As long as these dying quivers last, the Pompilus does not let go of her prey. She seems to be watching the progress of the paralysis. With the tip of her mandibles, she repeatedly explores the mouth of the Arachnid, as though to make sure that the poison-fangs are really harmless. Next, all becomes quiet; and the Calicurgus makes ready to drag her prey elsewhither. It is then that I take possession of it.

What strikes me first of all is the absolute inertness of the fangs, which I tickle with a straw without succeeding in rousing them from their torpor. The feelers, on the contrary, the feelers, their immediate neighbours, move backwards and forwards the moment I touch them. I put the Epeira away safely in a flask and subject her to a fresh examination a week later. Irritability has returned in part. Under the stimulus of the straw, I see the limbs move a little, especially the lower joints, legs and tarsi. The feelers are even more irritable and mobile. These various movements, however, are devoid of vigour or coordination; and the Spider cannot use them to turn herself and still less to shift her position. As for the poison-fangs, I stimulate them in vain; I do not succeed in inducing them to open, or even to move. They are, therefore, profoundly paralyzed and in a special manner. I thought as much, at the beginning, from the peculiar persistency displayed by the dart in stinging the mouth. [167]

At the end of September, almost a month after the operation, the Epeira is in the same condition, neither dead nor alive: the feelers still quiver at the touch of the straw; and nothing else stirs. Finally, after six or seven weeks of lethargy, real death supervenes, together with its companion, corruption.

The Tarantula of the Ringed Calicurgus, whom I steal from her owner while she is dragging her along, offers the same peculiarities for my inspection. The poison-fangs absolutely refuse to be irritated by the tickling of the straw, a fresh proof added to that of analogy to show that the Lycosa, like the Epeira, has been stung in the mouth. The feelers, on the other hand, are and for weeks remain exceedingly irritable and mobile. I insist upon this point, the interest of which will soon become apparent.

It was not possible for me to obtain a second attack from my Calicurgus Scurra: the tedium of captivity injured the exercise of her talents. Besides, the Epeira had occasionally something to say to this refusal: a certain stratagem of war twice employed before my eyes could easily rout the aggressor. Let me describe the thing, if only to raise a little in our esteem those silly Arachnids, who, provided with weapons of perfection, dare not use them against their feebler, but pluckier assailant.

The Epeira occupies the wall of the woven-wire enclosure, with her eight legs sprawling over the trellis-work; the Calicurgus moves about under the top of the dome. Panic-stricken at the sight of the enemy, the spider drops to the ground, with her belly in the air and her legs bunched up. The other goes to her, takes hold of her, examines her and places herself in a position to sting her in the mouth. But she does not unsheathe her dart. I see her leaning attentively over the poison-fangs, as though to enquire into the nature of the terrible [168]machinery; and then she moves away. The spider remains motionless, so much so that I believe her dead, paralyzed without my knowing it, at a moment when I was not looking. I take her out of the volery to examine her at my ease. But no sooner is she laid upon the table than she comes to life and promptly scurries away. The trickster was shamming for dead under the Calicurgus’ dagger and so artfully that I was taken in by her. She hoodwinked one cleverer than myself, the Calicurgus, who inspected her very closely and did not consider a dead body worthy of her steel. Perhaps the simpleton already noticed a “high” smell, like the bear in the fable.

This trick, if trick there be, appears to me to turn most often to the disadvantage of the Arachnid: Tarantula, Epeira or another, as the case may be. The Calicurgus, who has just thrown her on her back, after a brisk wrestling-match, knows well enough that the insect on the ground is not dead. The Spider, thinking to protect herself, shams the lifelessness of a corpse; the assailant takes advantage of this to strike her most dangerous blow, the stab in the mouth. If the poison-tipped fangs were to open then, to snap, to bite in their despair, the Calicurgus would never dare expose the tip of her stomach to their mortal sting. The pretence of death is just what causes the success of the huntress in her risky operation. We are told, O ingenuous Epeiræ, that the struggle for life counselled you to adopt that inert attitude in your own defence. Well, the struggle for life has shown herself a very bad counsellor. You would do better to believe in common sense and learn, by degrees, at your cost, that a quick parry-and-thrust, especially when your resources permit of it, is still the best way of striking awe into the enemy. [169]

The attainments of the Curculionid mother are, generally speaking, limited to inserting her eggs at places where the grubs will find suitable nourishment and occasionally varying the diet with a botanical judgment of marvellous certainty. She displays little or no industry. The niceties of the feeding-bottle or the baby-linen do not concern her. To this rough conception of the duties of maternity, I know but one exception, the attribute of certain Weevils, who, in order to endow their young with an alimentary preserve, possess the art of rolling a leaf, which serves as board and lodging in one.

Among these manufacturers of vegetable sausages, the most skilful is the Poplar Weevil (Rhynchites Populi, Lin.), who is modest in proportions, but resplendent in attire. Her back is clad in gleaming gold and copper; her back is indigo blue. Would you see her at work, you need but visit the lower twigs of the common black poplar, at the edge of the meadows, about the end of May.

Whereas, up at the top, the fond spring breezes shake the majestic green distaff and set the leaves quivering on their flattened stalks, down below, in a zone of calmer air, the tender shoots of the year remain quiescent. Here, especially, far from the wind-tossed heights opposed to [185]labour, the Rhynchites works. And, as the workshop is just at a man’s height, nothing is more easy than to observe the roller’s actions.

Easy, yes, but distressing, under a blazing sun, if one would follow the insect in all the detail of its methods and the progress of its work. Moreover, this involves a great deal of walking, which takes up time; and, again, it is not favourable to precise observations, which require an indefinite amount of leisure and assiduous visits at all hours of the day. It would, therefore, be greatly preferable to study the animal comfortably at home; but it is above all things necessary that she should lend herself to this plan.

The Rhynchites fulfils the condition excellently well. She is a peaceable enthusiast and works on my table with the same zest as in her poplar-tree. A few tender shoots, planted in fresh sand, under a woven-wire cover, and renewed as soon as they begin to fade, take the place of the tree in my study. The Weevil, not in the least intimidated, devotes herself to her industry even under the lens of my magnifying-glass and supplies me with as many scrolls as I could wish for.

Let us watch her at work. She picks the leaf which she proposes to roll from the young shoots sprouting in sheaves at the base of the trunk, but picks it not among the lower leaves, which are already the correct green and of a firm texture, nor yet among the terminal leaves, which are in a fair way of growing. Above, they are too young, not wide enough; below, they are too old, too tough, too hard to manage.

The leaf selected belongs to the intermediate rows. As yet of a doubtful green, in which yellow predominates, soft and glossy with varnish, it has, or has very nearly, [186]the final dimensions. Its denticulations swell into delicate glandular pads, whence oozes a little of the viscous matter that tars the buds at the moment when their bracts become disjoined.

A word now on the equipment in respect of tools. The legs are supplied with double claws shaped like the meat-hooks of a steel-yard. The lower side of the tarsi carries a thick tuft of white bristles. Thus shod, the insect clambers very nimbly up the most slippery vertical walls; it can stand and run like a fly, with its back downwards, on the ceiling of a glass bell. This characteristic alone is enough to suggest the subtle sense of equilibrium which the Weevil’s work will demand.

The curved and powerful beak or rostrum, without being exaggerated in size, spreads at the tip into a spatula ending in a pair of fine, shear-like mandibles. It makes an excellent bodkin, which plays the first or leading part in the whole work. The leaf, in fact, cannot be rolled in its actual condition. It is a live blade which, owing to the afflux of the sap and the tonicity of the tissues, would resume its flat formation in proportion as the insect endeavoured to curve it. The dwarf insect has not the strength to master a piece of these dimensions, to roll it up so long as it retains the elasticity of life. This is evident to our eyes; it is evident also to the eyes of the Weevil.

How is she to obtain the degree of inert suppleness required in the circumstances? We ourselves would say:

“We must pluck the leaf, let it fall to the earth, and manipulate it on the ground when it is rightly withered.” [187]

The Curculionid is cleverer than we at this sort of business and does not share our opinion. What she says to herself is:

“On the ground, amid the obstruction of the grass, my labours would be impracticable. I want elbow-room; I want the thing to hang in the air, where there are no obstacles of any kind. And there is a more serious consideration: my grub would refuse a rank, dried-up sausage; it insists on food that retains a certain freshness. The scroll which I intend for its consumption must be not a dead leaf, but an impaired leaf, not altogether deprived of the juices with which the tree supplies it. I must wean my joint, but not kill it outright, so that the dying leaf may remain in its place for the few days during which the extreme youth of the worm lasts.”

The mother, therefore, having made her selection, takes up her stand on the stalk of the leaf and there patiently drives in her rostrum, turning it with a persistency that denotes the great importance of this thrust of the bodkin. A little wound opens, a fairly deep wound, which soon becomes a point of mortification.

It is done: the sap-conduits are cut and allow only a scanty proportion to ooze through to the edge. At the injured point, the leaf gives way under the weight; it bends vertically, withers a little and soon acquires the requisite flexibility. The moment has come to work it.

That bodkin-thrust represents, although much less scientifically, the prick of the hunting Hymenopteron’s sting. The latter wants for her offspring a prey now dead, now paralyzed; she knows, with the thoroughness of a consummate anatomist, at what points it behoves her to insert the sting to obtain either sudden [188]death or merely a cessation of movement. The Rhynchites requires for her young a leaf rendered flexible ad hoc, half-alive, paralyzed in a fashion, a leaf that can easily be shaped into a scroll; she is wonderfully familiar with the little leaf-stalk, the petiole, in which the vessels that dispense the foliaceous energy are collected in a tiny bundle; and she inserts her drill there, there only and never any elsewhere. Thus, at one blow, without much trouble, she effects the ruin of the aqueduct. Where can the beaked insect have learnt her astute trade as a drier-up of wells?

The leaf of the poplar is an irregular rhombus, a spear-head whose sides widen into pointed pinions. The manufacture of the scroll begins with one of those two lateral corners, the right or left indifferently. Notwithstanding the hanging posture of the leaf, which makes the upper or lower surface equally easy of access, the insect never fails to take its position on the upper side. It has its reasons, dictated by the laws of mechanics. The upper surface of the piece, which is smoother and more flexible, has to form the inside of the scroll; the lower surface, which has greater elasticity because of its powerful veins, must occupy the outside. The statics of the small-brained Weevil agree with those of the scientists.

See her at work. She stands on the rolling-line, with three of her legs on the part already rolled and the three opposite on the part still free. Solidly fixed, on both sides, with her claws and tufts, she obtains a purchase with the legs on the one side, while making her effort with the legs on the other. The two halves of the machine alternate like motors, so that, at one time, the formed cylinder rolls over the free blade and, at another, the free blade moves and is laid upon the scroll already made. [189]

There is nothing regular, however, about these alternations, which depend upon circumstances known to the animal alone. Perhaps they merely afford a means of resting for a little while without stopping a work that does not allow of interruption. In the same way, our two hands mutually relieve each other by taking it in turns to carry the burden.

It is impossible to form an exact image of the difficulty overcome, without watching, for hours on end, the obstinate straining of the legs, which tremble with exhaustion and threaten to spoil everything if one of them let go at the wrong moment, or without seeing with what prudence the roller never releases one claw until the five others are firmly fixed. On the one side are three points of support, on the other three points of traction; and the six are shifted, one by one, little by little, without for a moment allowing their connected mechanical system to flag. A single instant of forgetfulness or weariness would cause the rebellious piece to unroll its scroll and escape from the manipulator’s grasp.

The work is accomplished, moreover, in an uncomfortable position. The leaf hangs very much on the slant or even vertically. Its surface is varnished, is smooth as glass. But the worker is shod accordingly. With her tufted soles, she scales the polished perpendicular; with her twelve meat-hooks, she tackles the slippery floor. Yet this fine set of tools does not rid the operation of all its difficulties. I find it no easy matter to follow the progress of the rolling with the magnifying-glass. The hands of a watch do not move more slowly. The insect stands for a long time, at the same point, with its claws firmly fixed; it is waiting for the leaf to be mastered and to cease resistance. Here, of course, there [190]is no gumming-process to catch hold and keep the fresh surfaces glued together. The stability depends purely upon the flexion acquired. And so it is not unusual for the elasticity of the piece to overcome the efforts of the worker and partly to unroll the more or less forward work. Stubbornly, with the same impassive slowness, the insect begins all over again, replaces the insubordinate piece. No, the Weevil is not one to allow herself to be upset by failure: she knows too well what patience and time will do.

The Rhynchites usually works backwards. When her line is finished, she is careful not to abandon the fold which she has just made and return to the starting-point to begin another. The part last folded is not yet fastened sufficiently; if left to itself too soon, it might easily rebel and flatten out again. The insect, therefore, persists at this extreme point, which is more exposed than the rest; and then, without letting go, makes her way backwards to the other end, still with patient slowness. In this way, an added firmness is imparted to the fold; and the next fold is prepared. At the end of the line there is a fresh prolonged halt, followed by a fresh backward motion. Even so does the husbandman’s plough-share alternate its work on the furrows.

Less frequently, when, no doubt, the leaf is found to be so limp as to entail no risk, the insect abandons the fold which it has just made, without going over it again in the opposite direction, and quickly scrambles to the starting-point to contrive a new one.

There we are at last. Coming and going from top to bottom and from bottom to top, the insect, by dint of stubborn dexterity, has rolled its leaf. It is now on the [191]extreme edge of the border, at the lateral corner opposite to that whereat the work commenced. This is the keystone upon which the stability of the rest depends. The Rhynchites redoubles her cares and patience. With the end of her rostrum, expanded spatulawise, she presses, at one point after the other, the edge to be fixed, even as the tailor presses the recalcitrant edges of a seam with his iron. For a long, a very long time, without moving, she pushes and pushes, awaiting the proper adhesion. Point by point, the whole of the corner welt is fastidiously sealed.

How is adhesion obtained? If only some thread or other were brought into play, one would readily look upon the rostrum as a sewing-machine planting its needle perpendicularly into the stuff. But the comparison is not allowable: there is no filament employed in the work. The explanation of the adherence lies elsewhere.

The leaf is young, we said; the fine pads of its denticulations are glands whence ooze liquid beads of glue. These drops of viscous matter are the gum, the sealing-wax. With the pressure of its beak, the insect makes it gush more plentifully from the glands. It then has only to hold the signet in position and wait for the impress to acquire consistency. Taken all round, it is our method of sealing a letter. If it hold ever so little, the leaf, losing its elasticity gradually as it withers, will soon cease to fly back and will of itself retain the scroll-form imposed upon it.

The work is done. It is a cigar of the diameter of a thick straw and about an inch long. It hangs perpendicularly from the end of the bruised and bent stalk. It has taken the whole of a day to make. After a short spell of rest, the mother tackles a second leaf and, working [192]by night, obtains another scroll. Two in twenty-four hours are as much as the most diligent can achieve.

Now what is the roller’s object? Would she go to the length of preparing preserves for her own use? Obviously not: no insect, where itself alone is concerned, devotes such care and patience to the preparation of food. It is only in view of the family that it hoards so industriously. The Rhynchites’ cigar forms the future dowry.

Let us unroll it. Here, between the layers of the scroll, is an egg; often there are two, three, or even four. They are oval, pale-yellow and like fine drops of amber. Their adhesion to the leaf is very slight; the least jerk loosens them. They are distributed without order, pushed more or less deeply in the thickness of the cigar and always isolated, singly. We find them in the centre of the scroll, almost at the corner where the rolling begins; we come upon them between the different layers and even near the edge which is sealed in glue with the signet of the rostrum.

Without interrupting her work on the scroll, without relaxing the tension of her claws, the mother has laid them between the lips of the fold in formation, as she felt them coming, one by one, duly matured, at the end of her oviduct. She procreates in the midst of her toil in the factory, between the wheels of the machine that would be thrown out of gear if she snatched a moment’s rest. Manufacture and laying go hand-in-hand. Short-lived, with but two or three weeks before her and an expensive family to settle, the Rhynchites would fear to waste her time in churching.

This is not all: on the same leaf, not far from the scroll that is being laboriously rolled, we almost always find the male. What is he doing there, the idler? Is he watching [193]the work as a mere inquisitive onlooker, who happened to be passing and stopped to see the machinery go round? Is he interested in the business? Does he ever feel inclined to lend a helping hand, in case of need?

One would say so. From time to time, I see him take his stand behind the manufacturer, in the groove of the fold, hang on to the cylinder and join for a little in the work. But this is done without zeal and awkwardly. Half a turn of the wheel, or hardly; and that’s enough for him. After all, it is not his business. He moves away, to the other end of the leaf; he waits, he looks on.

Let us give him credit for this attempt: paternal assistance in the settling of the family is very rare among insects; let us congratulate him on the help he gives, but not beyond measure: his was an interested aid. It is to him a means of declaring his flame and urging his merits.

And, in fact, after several refusals, notwithstanding the advances made by a brief collaboration at the scroll, the impatient one is accepted. Things happen in the work-yard. For ten minutes, the rolling is suspended; but the workwoman’s legs, stubbornly contracted, are careful not to let go: were their effort to cease, the scroll would unroll at once. There must be no interruption of work for this brief diversion, the animal’s only pleasure.

The stopping of the machine, which is always held tight so as to keep the recalcitrant roll in subjection, does not last long. The male withdraws to a slight distance, without quitting the leaf, and the task is resumed. Sooner or later, before the seals are put upon the work, a new visit is paid by the dawdler, who, under pretence of assisting, plants his claws for a moment into the rolling piece, plucks up courage and renews his exploits with the [194]same vigour as though nothing had yet happened. And this is repeated three or four times during the making of a single cigar, so much so that one asks one’s self whether the depositing of each germ does not demand the direct cooperation of the insatiable suitor.

According to entomological rules, once the fun is over, everything should relapse into calmness and each mother should to work at those cigars without further disturbance. In this case, the general law relents. I have never seen a scroll shaped without a male lurking in the neighbourhood; and, when I have had the patience to wait, I have always witnessed manifold pairings. These weddings repeated for each germ puzzle me. Where, relying on the books, I expected uniformity, I find uncertainty.

This is not an isolated case. I will mention a second and one that is even more striking. It is supplied by the Capricorn (Cerambyx Heros). I bring up a few couples in the volery, with sliced pears for food and oak billets wherein to lay the eggs. Pairing-time lasts during nearly the whole of July. For four weeks, the great horned one does nothing but mount his companion, who, gripped by her rider, wanders at will and, with the tip of her oviduct, selects the fissures in the bark best-suited to receive the eggs.

At long intervals, the Cerambyx alights and goes to refresh himself with a piece of pear. Then, suddenly, he stamps his feet as though he had gone mad; he returns with a frantic rush, clambers into the saddle and resumes his position, of which he makes free use at all hours of the night and day.

At the moment when an egg is being deposited, he keeps quiet: with his hairy tongue, he polishes the back of the egg-layer, which is a Capricorn’s way of caressing; [195]but, the instant after, he renews his attempts, which are usually crowned with success. There is no end to it!

The pairing continues in this manner for a month: it does not cease until the ovaries are exhausted. Then, mutually worn out, having nothing more to do on the trunk of the oak, husband and wife separate, languish for a few days and die.

What conclusion are we to draw from this extraordinary persistency in the Cerambyx, the Rhynchites and many others? Simply this: our truths are but provisional; assailed by the truths of to-morrow, they become entangled with so many contradictory facts that the last word of knowledge is doubt.

In the spring, while the leaves of the poplar are being worked into scrolls, another Rhynchites, she also gorgeously attired, makes cigars of the leaves of the vine. She is a little stouter, of a metallic gold-green turning to blue. Were she but larger, the splendid Vine Weevil would occupy a very respectable place among the gems of entomology.

To attract our eyes, she has something better than the brilliancy of her appearance: she has her industry, which makes her hated by the vine-grower, so jealous of his property. The peasant knows her; he even speaks of her by a special name, an honour rarely bestowed in the world of the smaller animals.

The rural vocabulary is rich where plants, but very poor where insects are concerned. A couple of dozen words, inextricably confused owing to their general character, represent the whole of entomological nomenclature in the Provençal idiom, which becomes so expressive and so fertile the moment it has to do with any sort of vegetation, sometimes even with a poor blade of [196]grass which one would believe known to the botanist alone.

The man of the soil is interested first and foremost in the plant, the great foster-mother; the rest leaves him indifferent. Magnificent adornment, curious habits, marvels of instinct: all these say nothing to him. But to touch his vine, to eat grass that doesn’t belong to one: what a heinous crime! Quick, give the malefactor a nickname, to serve as a penal collar!

This time, the Provençal peasant has gone out of his way to invent a special word: he calls the cigar-roller the Bécaru. Here the scientific expression and the rural expression agree fully. Rhynchites and Bécaru are exact equivalents: each refers to the insect’s long beak.

The Vine Weevil adopts the same method in her work as her cousin of the poplar. The leaf is first pricked with the rostrum at a spot in the stalk, which provokes a stoppage of the sap and flexibility in the withered blade. The rolling begins at the corner of one of the lower lobes, with the smooth, green upper surface within and the cottony strongly-veined lower surface without.

But the great width of the leaf and its deep indentations hardly ever allow of regular work from one end to the other. Abrupt folds occur instead and repeatedly alter the direction of the rolling, leaving now the green and now the cottony surface on the outside, without any appreciable order or arrangement, as though by chance. The poplar-leaf, with its simple form and its moderate size, gives a neat scroll; the vine-leaf, with its cumbersome girth and its complicated outline, produces a shapeless cigar, an untidy parcel. [197]