As the Caterpillar grows up, it does not seem to suffer; it feeds on the cabbage leaves and, when that is done, makes its pilgrimage as usual to find the place where it will weave its cocoon. It even begins this work; but it is listless, it has no strength; it grows thin and dies. No wonder, with a host of worms of the little Microgaster in its body, drinking its blood! The Caterpillar has obligingly lived till just the time when the Microgaster’s worms are ready to come out. They do so, and begin to weave their cocoons, where they turn into Midges with the long name.
CHAPTER XV
THE GREAT PEACOCK MOTH
It was an evening long to be remembered, when the Great Peacock Moths came to my house. This Moth is magnificent, the largest in Europe, clad in maroon velvet, with a necktie of white fur. The wings are sprinkled with gray and brown, crossed by a faint zigzag and edged with smoky white, and they have in the center a round patch, a great eye with a black pupil and a many-colored iris containing black, white, chestnut, and purple arcs. The Moth is hatched from a Caterpillar also remarkable in appearance, being yellow with beads of turquoise-blue. It feeds on almond leaves.
Well, on the morning of the sixth of May, a female Great Peacock Moth came out of her cocoon in my presence, on the table of my insect-laboratory. I at once caged her under a wire-gauze bell-jar. I did not think much about the matter. I kept her on general principles, for I am always on the lookout for something to happen.
I was glad afterwards that I had done so. At nine o’clock in the evening, just as the household is going to bed, there is a great stir in the room next to mine. Little Paul, half-undressed, is rushing about, jumping and stamping, knocking the chairs over like a mad thing. I hear him call me:
“Come, quick!” he screams. “Come and see these Moths, big as birds! The room is full of them!”
I hurry in. The child has not exaggerated very much. The room is full of giant Moths. Four are already caught and lodged in a bird-cage. Many others are fluttering on the ceiling.
At this sight, I remember my prisoner of the morning.