68 THE LIFE AND LOVE OF THE INSECT 



gallant way of declaring his ardour. I also suspect the 

 husband of lending a hand to his partner with the har- 

 vesting and the storing. From what I have gathered, 

 he too, strong as he is, collects his armfuls and goes down 

 into the crypt. The minute and tricky work goes much 

 faster with two helping. But, once the house is well 

 supplied, he retires discreetly, returns to the surface and 

 goes and settles down elsewhere, leaving the mother to 

 her delicate functions. His part in the family-mansion 

 is ended. 



Now what do we find in this mansion, to which we 

 have seen so many tiny loads of provisions lowered ? 

 A muddled heap of separate morsels ? Not in the least. 

 I always find a single lump, a huge loaf which fills the 

 box, but for a narrow passage all around, just wide 

 enough to leave the mother room to move. 



This sumptuous lump, a real Twelfth -Night cake, has 

 no fixed shape. I come across some that are ovoid, 

 suggesting a turkey's egg in form and size ; I find some 

 that are a flattened ellipsoid, similar to the common 

 onion ; I discover some that are almost round, reminding 

 one of a Dutch cheese ; I see some that are circular and 

 slightly raised on the upper surface, like the loaves of the 

 Provengal rustic or, better still, ihefougasso a I'idu 1 where- 

 with the Easter festival is celebrated. In every case, the 

 surface is smooth and regularly curved. 



There is no mistaking what has happened : the mother 

 has collected and kneaded into one lump the numerous 

 fragments brought down one after the other ; out of all 

 those particles she has made a homogeneous piece, by 

 dint of mashing them, amalgamating them, stamping 



1 An egg-shaped cake baked in Provence at Easter. Translator's 

 Note. 



