The Languedocian Sphex 133 



eye on you, mark you ! And, the first time 

 I . . . ! However, that '11 do for the present.' 



And he went off. I have always believed 

 that my red ribbon had a good deal to do with 

 his departure. And I also put down to that 

 red ribbon certain other little services by which 

 I benefited during my entomological and 

 botanical excursions. It seemed to me — or was 

 I dreaming ? — it seemed to me that, on my 

 botanizing expeditions up Mont Ventoux, the 

 guide was more tractable and the donkey less 

 obstinate. 



The aforesaid bit of scarlet ribbon did not 

 always spare me the tribulations which the 

 entomologist must expect when experimenting 

 on the public way. Here is a characteristic 

 example. Ever since daybreak I have been 

 ambushed, sitting on a stone, at the bottom of 

 a ravine. The subject of my matutinal visit 

 is the Languedocian Sphex. Three women, 

 vine-pickers, pass in a group, on the way to 

 their work. They give a glance at the man 

 seated, apparently absorbed in reflection. At 

 sunset, the same pickers pass again, carrying 

 their full baskets on their heads. The man is 

 still there, sitting on the same stone, with his 

 eyes fixed on the same place. My motionless 

 attitude, my long persistency in remaining at 

 that deserted spot, must have impressed them 



