THE CABBAGE-CATERPILLAR 309 



the dying caterpillar. No matter: I have seen enough 

 to convince me. The larvae of the Microgaster do not 

 eat in the strict sense of the word; they live on soup; and 

 that soup is the caterpillar's blood. 



Examine the parasites closely and you shall see that 

 their diet is bound to be a liquid one. They are little 

 white grubs, neatly segmented, with a pointed fore-part 

 splashed with tiny black marks, as though the atom had 

 been slaking its thirst in a drop of ink. It moves its 

 hind-quarters slowly, without shifting its position. I 

 place it under the microscope. The mouth is a pore, 

 devoid of any apparatus for disintegration-work: it has 

 no fangs, no horny nippers, no mandibles; its attack is 

 just a kiss. It does not chew, it sucks, it takes discreet 

 sips at the moisture all around it. 



The fact that it refrains entirely from biting is con- 

 firmed by my autopsy of the stricken caterpillars. In 

 the patient's belly, notwithstanding the number of 

 nurslings who hardly leave room for the nurse's entrails, 

 everything is in perfect order; nowhere do we see a trace 

 of mutilation. Nor does aught on the outside betray 

 any havoc within. The exploited caterpillars graze and 

 move about peacefully, giving no sign of pain. It is 

 impossible for me to distinguish them from the unscathed 

 ones in respect of appetite and untroubled digestion. 



When the time approaches to weave the carpet for 

 the support of the chrysalis, an appearance of emacia- 

 tion at last points to the evil that is at their vitals. They 

 spin nevertheless. They are stoics who do not forget 

 their duty in the hour of death. At last they expire, 



