reshold, was again removed, and placed in a room of the
opposite wing, on the ground floor. There was of course free access to
this room.

Of the twenty-four lacking their antennae sixteen only left the room.
Eight were powerless to do so; they were dying. Of the sixteen, how many
returned to the cage that night? Not one. My captives that night were
only seven, all new-comers, all wearing antennae. This result seemed to
prove that the amputation of the antennae was a matter of serious
significance. But it would not do to conclude as yet: one doubt
remained.

"A fine state I am in! How shall I dare to appear before the other
dogs?" said Mouflard, the puppy whose ears had been pitilessly docked.
Had my butterflies apprehensions similar to Master Mouflard's? Deprived
of their beautiful plumes, were they ashamed to appear in the midst of
their rivals, and to prefer their suits? Was it confusion on their part,
or want of guidance? Was it not rather exhaustion after an attempt
exceeding the duration of an ephemeral passion? Experience would show
me.

On the fourth night I took fourteen new-comers and set them apart as
they came in a room in which they spent the night. On the morrow,
profiting by their diurnal immobility, I removed a little of the hair
from the centre of the corselet or neck. This slight tonsure did not
inconvenience the insects, so easily was the silky fur removed, nor did
it deprive them of any organ which might later on be necessary in the
search for the female. To them it was nothing; for me it was the
unmistakable sign of a repeated visit.

This time there were none incapable of flight. At night the fourteen
shavelings escaped into the open air. The cage, of course, was again in
a new place. In two hours I captured twenty butterflies, of whom two
were tonsured; no more. As for those whose antennae I had amputated the
night before, not one reappeared. Their nuptial period was over.

Of fourteen marked by the tonsure two only returned. Why did the other
twelve fail to appear, although furnished with their supposed guides,
their antennae? To this I can see only one reply: that the Great Peacock
is promptly exhausted by the ardours of the mating season.

With a view to mating, the sole end of its life, the great moth is
endowed with a marvellous prerogative. It has the power to discover the
object of its desire in spite of distance, in spite of obstacles. A few
hours, for two or three nights, are given