The Ergates; the Cossus 



siduous. The owner had it cut down. Two 

 or three years after the massacre, I visited 

 the spot. 



The pines had disappeared, converted into 

 timber and firewood; nothing remained but 

 the enormous stumps, which were too diffi- 

 cult to extract. They were doomed to rot 

 where they stood. Not only had the 

 weather left its marks upon them, but their 

 interior was full of wide galleries, the signs 

 of a vigorous population completing the 

 work of death begun by man. It struck me 

 that it would be as well to enquire what was 

 swarming inside them. The landlord had 

 made the most of his coppice; he left it to me 

 to make the most of the ideas which it sug- 

 gested, since these had no value for him. 



One fine afternoon in winter, all my family 

 foregather and, with my son Paul wielding 

 a heavy implement, we proceed to break up 

 a couple of stumps. The wood, hard and 

 dry outside, has been transformed inside into 

 very soft layers, like slabs of touchwood. 

 In the midst of this moist, warm decay, a 

 worm as thick as my thumb abounds. Never 

 have I seen a fatter one. 



Its ivory whiteness is pleasing to the eye 

 and its satin-like delicacy is soft to the touch. 

 177 



