The Languedocian Sphex 



poor man seemed anything but convinced: 

 "Pooh!" he said. "Pooh! You will 

 never make me believe that you come here 

 and roast in the sun just to watch FHes. I 

 shall keep an eye on you, mark you ! And, 

 the first time I . . . ! However, that'll do 

 for the present." 



And he went off. I have always believed 

 that my red ribbon had a good deal to do 

 with his departure. And I also put down to 

 that red ribbon certain other little services by 

 which I benefited during my entomological 

 and botanical excursions. It seemed to me 



or was I dreaming? — it seemed to me 



that, on my botanizing-expeditions up Mont 

 Ventoux, the guide was more tractable and 

 the donkey less obstinate. 



The aforesaid bit of scarlet ribbon did not 

 always spare me the tribulations which the 

 entomologist must expect when experiment- 

 ing on the public way. Here is a character- 

 istic example. Ever since daybreak I have 

 been ambushed, sitting on a stone, at the bot- 

 tom of a ravine. The subject of my matu- 

 tinal visit is the Languedocian Sphex. Three 

 women, vine-pickers, pass in a group, on the 

 way to their work. They give a glance at 

 the man seated, apparently absorbed in reflec- 

 ts 



