4 THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT 



not try to say. It has come; and, with it a more seri- 

 ous condition perhaps a little leisure. I say perhaps, 

 for my leg is still hampered with a few links of the con- 

 vict's chain. 



The wish is realized. It is a little late, O ! my pretty 

 insects! I greatly fear that the peach is offered to me 

 when I am beginning to have no teeth wherewith to eat 

 it. Yes, it is a little late : the wide horizons of the out- 

 set have shrunk into a low and stifling canopy, more and 

 more straitened day by day. Regretting nothing in the 

 past, save those whom I have lost; regretting nothing, 

 not even my first youth; hoping nothing either, I have 

 reached the point at which, worn out by the experience of 

 things, we ask ourselves if life be worth the living. 



Amid the ruins that surround me, one strip of wall re- 

 mains standing, immovable upon its solid base : my pas- 

 sion for scientific truth. Is that enough, O! my busy 

 insects, to enable me to add yet a few seemly pages to 

 your history? Will my strength not cheat my good in- 

 tentions ? Why, indeed, did I forsake you so long ? 



Friends have reproached me for it. Ah, tell them, tell 

 those friends, who are yours as well as mine, tell them 

 that it was not forget fulness on my part, not weariness, 

 nor neglect: I thought of you; I was convinced that the 

 Cerceris' l cave had more fair secrets to reveal to us, that 

 the chase of the Sphex held fresh surprises in store. 

 But time failed me; I was alone, deserted, struggling 

 against misfortune. Before philosophizing, one had to 

 live. Tell them that, and they will pardon me. 



1 A species of Digger-wasp. Translator's Note. 



