CHAPTER I 



THE SACRED BEETLE 



TT happened like this. There were five or 

 ^ six of us : myself, the oldest, officially their 

 master but even more their friend and com- 

 rade; they, lads with warm hearts and joyous 

 imaginations, overflowing with that youthful 

 vitality which makes us so enthusiastic and so 

 eager for knowledge. We started off one 

 morning down a path fringed with dwarf 

 elder and hawthorn, whose clustering blos- 

 soms were already a paradise for the Rose- 

 chafer ecstatically drinking in their bitter 

 perfumes. We talked as we went. We 

 were going to see whether the Sacred Beetle 

 had yet made his appearance on the sandy 

 plateau of Les Angles,^ whether he was roll- 

 ing that pellet of dung in which ancient Egypt 

 beheld an image of the world; we were going 

 to find out whether the stream at the foot of 

 the hill was not hiding under its mantle of 

 duckweed young Newts with gills like tiny 



1 A village in the department of the Gard, facing 

 Avignon. — Author's Note. 



I 



