The Psyches: the Laying 



Yes, lanam fecit. The Psyche does not 

 really work the wool on the distaff; but at 

 least she bequeathes to her sons her own 

 fleece converted into a heap of wadding. Yes, 

 domi mansit. She never leaves her house, 

 not even for her wedding, not even for the 

 purpose of laying her eggs. 



We have seen how, after receiving the visit 

 of the male, the shapeless Moth, that un- 

 couth sausage, retreats to the back of her 

 case and withdraws into her chrysalid slough, 

 which she fills exactly, just as though she had 

 never left it. The eggs are in their place then 

 and there; they occupy the regulation sack 

 favoured by the various Psyches. Of what 

 use would a laying be now? Strictly speak- 

 ing, there is none, in fact; that is to say, the 

 eggs do not leave the mother's womb. The 

 living pouch which has engendered them 

 keeps them within itself. 



Soon this bag loses its moisture by evapo- 

 ration; it dries up and at the same time re- 

 mains sticking to the chrysalid wrapper, that 

 firm support. Let us open the thing. What 

 does the magnifying- glass show us? A few 

 trachean threads, lean bundles of muscles, 

 nervous ramifications, in short, the relics of 



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