The Locusts: the last Moult 



izable fluid is abruptly congealing into a 

 network of nervures; we should imagine that 

 we were in the presence of a crystallization 

 similar, in its suddenness, to that of a saline 

 solution on the slide of a microscope. Well, 

 no: things cannot be actually happening like 

 that. Life does not perform its tasks so 

 hastily. 



I detach a half-developed wing and turn 

 the powerful eye of the microscope upon it. 

 This time I am satisfied. On the confines 

 where the network seemed to be gradually 

 woven, that network was really in existence. 

 I can plainly see the longitudinal nervures, 

 already thick and strong; and I can also see, 

 pale, it is true, and without relief, the cross- 

 bars. I find them all in the terminal roll, 

 of which I succeed in unfolding a few strips. 



It is obvious. The wing is not at this mo- 

 ment a fabric on the loom, through which 

 the procreative energies are driving their 

 shuttle; it is a fabric already completed. All 

 that it lacks to be perfect is expansion and 

 stiffness, even as our linen needs only starch- 

 ing and ironing. 



The flattening out is finished in three hours 

 or more. The wings and wing-cases stand 

 up on the Locust's back like a huge set of 



415 



