The Life of Jean Henri Fabre 



the darkness and return. At moments there is a 

 violent tumult; a confused mass of swarming legs, 

 snapping pincers and coiling, clashing tails, threat- 

 ening or caressing, one does not quite know which. 

 All take part in the scuffle, large and small ; you 

 would think it a deadly battle, a general massacre, 

 but it is only a crazy game, like a scrimmage of 

 kittens. Presently the group disperses; they retire 

 for a little in all directions, without any sign of 

 a wound, without a sprain. 1 



What do you think of the saraband of 

 these horrible creatures, so full of mirth and 

 playfulness? Certainly it has its fascinating 

 side; but it is not equal to the scenes of be- 

 trothal and espousal. 



Now the fugitives are once more assembled be- 

 neath the lantern. They pass to and fro, coming 

 and going, often meeting face to face. The one 

 in the greatest hurry walks over the other's back, 

 who allows him to do so without other protest 

 than a movement of the rump. The time has not 

 come for squabbling; at the most those encounter- 

 ing exchange the equivalent of a punch on the 

 head: that is, a thump of the tail. 



We have something better here than entangled 

 legs and brandished tails; these are pauses of great 

 originality. Face to face, the claws drawn back, 



1 Souvenirs, ix., pp. 94-97, 231, 299-310. The Life and 

 Love of the Insect, chaps, xvii., xviii. 

 246 



