234 THE LIFE AND LOVE OF THE INSECT 



exchanged in each other's ears. The little fore-legs flutter 

 in fevered caresses. What are they saying to each other ? 

 How shall we translate their silent epithalamium into 

 words ? 



The whole household turns out to see this curious 

 group, which our presence in no way disturbs. The pair 

 are pronounced to be "pretty"; and the expression is 

 not exaggerated. Semi-translucent and shining in the 

 light of the lantern, they seem carved out of a block of 

 yellow amber. Their arms outstretched, their tails rolled 

 into graceful volutes, they wander on with a slow move- 

 ment and with measured tread. 



Nothing puts them out. Should some vagabond, 

 taking the evening air and keeping to the wall like them- 

 selves, meet them on their way, he stands aside for he 

 understands these delicate matters and leaves them a 

 free passage. Lastly, the shelter of a tile receives the 

 strolling pair, the male entering first and backwards : 

 that goes without saying. It is nine o'clock. 



The idyll of the evening is followed, during the night, 

 by a hideous tragedy. Next morning, we find the Scor- 

 pioness under the potsherd of the previous day. The little 

 male is by her side, but slain and more or less devoured. 

 He lacks the head, a claw, a pair of legs. I place the 

 corpse in the open, on the threshold of the home. All day 

 long, the recluse does not touch it. When night returns, 

 she goes out and, meeting the defunct on her passage, 

 carries him off to a distance to give him a decent funeral, 

 that is to finish eating him. 



This act of cannibalism agrees with what the open-air 

 colony showed me last year. From time to time, I would 

 find, under the stones, a pot-bellied female making a 

 comfortable ritual meal off her companion of the night. 



