els.

And the insect is supposed to carry its cunning to the length of
counterfeiting resuscitation down to the least details! No, no and
again no; it would be madness. Those quiverings of the tarsi, those
awakening movements of the palpi and antennae are the obvious proof of
a genuine torpor, now coming to an end, a torpor similar to that
induced by ether but less intense; they show that the insect struck
motionless by my artifice is not shamming dead, as the vulgar idiom
has it and as the fashionable theories repeat. It is really
hypnotized.

A shock which disturbs its nerve-centres, an abrupt fright which
seizes upon it reduce it to a state of somnolence like that of the
bird which is swung for a second or two with its head under its wing.
A sudden terror sometimes deprives us human beings of the power of
movement, sometimes kills us. Why should not the insect's organism, so
delicate and subtle, give way beneath the grip of fear and momentarily
succumb? If the emotion be slight, the insect shrinks into itself for
an instant, quickly recovers and makes off; if it be profound,
hypnosis supervenes, with its prolonged immobility.

The insect, which knows nothing of death and therefore cannot
counterfeit it, knows nothing either of suicide, that desperate means
of cutting short excessive misery. No authentic example has ever been
given, to my knowledge, of an animal of any kind robbing itself of its
own life. That those most richly endowed with the capacity of
affection sometimes allow themselves to die of grief I grant you; but
there is a great difference between this and stabbing one's self or
cutting one's throat.

Yet the recollection occurs to me of the Scorpion's suicide, sworn to
by some, denied by others. What truth is there in the story of the
Scorpion who, surrounded by a circle of fire, puts an end to his
suffering by stabbing himself with his poisoned sting? Let us see for
ourselves:

Circumstances favour me. I am at this moment rearing, in large earthen
pans, with a bed of sand and with potsherds for shelter, a hideous
menagerie which hardly comes up to my expectations as regards the
study of morals.[1] I will profit by it in another way. It consists of
some twenty-four specimens of _Buthus occitanus_, the large White
Scorpion of the south of France. The odious animal abounds, always
isolated, under the flat stones of the neighbouring hills, in the
sandy spots which enjoy the most sunlight. It has a de