The Praying Mantis commences her nest at the blunter extremity, and completes it at the pointed tail. The latter is often prolonged in a sort of promontory, in which the insect expends the last drop of glutinous liquid as she stretches herself after her task. A sitting of two hours, more or less, without interruption, is required for the total accomplishment of the work. Directly the period of labour is over, the mother withdraws, indifferent henceforth to her completed task. I have watched her, half expecting to see her return, to discover some tenderness for the cradle of her family. But no: not a trace of maternal pleasure. The work is done, and concerns her no longer. Crickets approach; one of them even squats upon the nest. The Mantis takes no notice of them. They are peaceful intruders, to be sure; but even were they dangerous, did they threaten to rifle the nest, would she attack them and drive them away? Her impassive demeanour convinces me that she would not. What is the nest to her? She is no longer conscious of it.
I have spoken of the many embraces to which the Praying Mantis submits, and of the tragic end of the male, who is almost invariably devoured as though a lawful prey. In the space of a fortnight I have known the same female to adventure upon matrimony no less than seven times. Each time the readily consoled widow devoured her mate. Such habits point to frequent laying; and we find the appearance confirmed, though not as a general rule. Some of my females gave me one nest only; others two, the second as capacious as the first. The most fruitful of all produced three; of these the two first were of normal dimensions, while the third was about half the usual size.
From this we can reckon the productivity of the insect's ovaries. From the transverse fissures of the median zone of the nest it is easy to estimate the layers of eggs; but these layers contain more or fewer eggs according to their position in the middle of the nest or near the ends. The numbers contained by the widest and narrowest layers will give us an approximate average. I find that a nest of fair size contains about four hundred eggs. Thus the maker of the three nests, of which the last was half as large as the others, produced no less than a thousand eggs; eight hundred were deposited in the larger nests and two or three hundred in the smaller. Truly a fine family, but a thought ungainly, were it not that only a few of its members can survive.
Of a fair size, of curious structure, and well in evidence on its twig or stone, the nest of the Praying Mantis could hardly escape the attention of the Provençal peasant. It is well known in the country districts, where it goes by the name of tigno; it even enjoys a certain celebrity. But no one seems to be aware of its origin. It is always a surprise to my rustic neighbours when they learn that the well-known tigno is the nest of the common Mantis, the Prègo-Diéu. This ignorance may well proceed from the nocturnal habits of the Mantis. No one has caught the insect at work upon her nest in the silence of the night. The link between the artificer and the work is missing, although both are well known to the villager.
No matter: the singular object exists; it catches the eye, it attracts attention. It must therefore be good for something; it must possess virtue of some kind. So in all ages have the simple reasoned, in the childlike hope of finding in the unfamiliar an alleviation of their sorrows.
By general agreement the rural pharmacopœia of Provence pronounces the tigno to be the best of remedies against chilblains. The method of employment is of the simplest. The nest is cut in two, squeezed and the affected part is rubbed with the cut surface as the juices flow from it. This specific, I am told, is sovereign. All sufferers from blue and swollen fingers should without fail, according to traditional usage, have recourse to the tigno.
Is it really efficacious? Despite the general belief, I venture to doubt it, after fruitless experiments on my own fingers and those of other members of my household during the winter of 1895, when the severe and persistent cold produced an abundant crop of chilblains. None of us, treated with the celebrated unguent, observed the swelling to diminish; none of us found that the pain and discomfort was in the least assuaged by the sticky varnish formed by the juices of the crushed tigno. It is not easy to believe that others are more successful, but the popular renown of the specific survives in spite of all, probably thanks to a simple accident of identity between the name of the remedy and that of the infirmity: the Provençal for "chilblain" is tigno. From the moment when the chilblain and the nest of the Mantis were known by the same name were not the virtues of the latter obvious? So are reputations created.
In my own village, and doubtless to some extent throughout the Midi, the tigno—the nest of the Mantis, not the chilblain—is also reputed as a marvellous cure for toothache. It is enough to carry it upon the person to be free of that lamentable affection. Women wise in such matters gather them beneath a propitious moon, and preserve them piously in some corner of the clothes-press or wardrobe. They sew them in the lining of the pocket, lest they should be pulled out with the handkerchief and lost; they will grant the loan of them to a neighbour tormented by some refractory molar. "Lend me thy tigno: I am suffering martyrdom!" begs the owner of a swollen face.—"Don't on any account lose it!" says the lender: "I haven't another, and we aren't at the right time of moon!"
We will not laugh at the credulous victim; many a remedy triumphantly puffed on the latter pages of the newspapers and magazines is no more effectual. Moreover, this rural simplicity is surpassed by certain old books which form the tomb of the science of a past age. An English naturalist of the sixteenth century, the well-known physician, Thomas Moffat, informs us that children lost in the country would inquire their way of the Mantis. The insect consulted would extend a limb, indicating the direction to be taken, and, says the author, scarcely ever was the insect mistaken. This pretty story is told in Latin, with an adorable simplicity.