I suspect that both sexes take part in the master work: at least, I often come upon the couple in the burrows destined for the laying. The roomy and luxurious apartment was no doubt once the wedding-hall; the marriage was consummated under the great vault to the building of which the swain has contributed: a [[68]]gallant way of declaring his ardour. I also suspect the husband of lending a hand to his partner with the harvesting and the storing. From what I have gathered, he too, strong as he is, collects his armfuls and goes down into the crypt. The minute and tricky work goes much faster with two helping. But, once the house is well supplied, he retires discreetly, returns to the surface and goes and settles down elsewhere, leaving the mother to her delicate functions. His part in the family-mansion is ended.
Now what do we find in this mansion, to which we have seen so many tiny loads of provisions lowered? A muddled heap of separate morsels? Not in the least. I always find a single lump, a huge loaf which fills the box, but for a narrow passage all around, just wide enough to leave the mother room to move.
This sumptuous lump, a real Twelfth-Night cake, has no fixed shape. I come across some that are ovoid, suggesting a turkey’s egg in form and size; I find some that are a flattened ellipsoid, similar to the common onion; I discover some that are almost round, reminding one of a Dutch cheese; I see some that are circular and slightly raised on the upper surface, like the loaves of the Provençal rustic or, better still, the fougasso à l’iôu[2] wherewith the Easter festival is celebrated. In every case, the surface is smooth and regularly curved.
There is no mistaking what has happened: the mother has collected and kneaded into one lump the numerous fragments brought down one after the other; out of all those particles she has made a homogeneous piece, by dint of mashing them, amalgamating them, stamping [[69]]on them. I repeatedly surprise the baker on the top of the colossal loaf beside which the Sacred Beetle’s pill cuts so poor a figure: she goes strolling about on the convex surface, which sometimes measures a decimetre[3] across; she pats the mass, consolidates it, levels it. I can give but a glance at the curious scene. As soon as she is perceived, the pastry-cook slides down the curved slope and huddles out of sight beneath the pie.
To follow the work further, to study its close detail, we must resort to artifice. The difficulty is almost nil. Either my long practice with the Sacred Beetle has made me more skilful in methods of research, or else the Copris is less circumspect and endures more readily the annoyance of a long captivity; for I succeed, without the least impediment, in following all the phases of the nest-making at my heart’s ease.
I employ two methods, each fitted to instruct me as to certain particulars. Whenever the voleries supply me with a few large cakes, I move these, with the mother, and place them in my study. The receptacles are of two sorts, according to whether I want light or darkness. For light, I employ glass jars with a diameter more or less the same as that of the burrows, say about a dozen centimetres.[4] At the bottom of each is a thin layer of fresh sand, quite insufficient to allow the Copris to bury herself in it, but convenient, nevertheless, to save the insect from the slippery footing provided by the glass and to give it the illusion of a soil similar to that of which I have deprived it. On this layer the jar receives the mother and her loaf.
I need hardly say that the startled insect would not [[70]]undertake anything under conditions of light, however softly modulated. It demands complete obscurity, which I produce by means of a cardboard box encasing the cylinder. By carefully raising this box a little, I am able, presently, when I feel inclined, to surprise the captive at her work and even to follow her doings for a time. The method, the reader will see, is much simpler than that which I used when I wished to see the Sacred Beetle engaged in modelling her pear. The easier-going mood of the Copris lends itself to this simplification, which would be none too successful with the other. A dozen of these eclipsed apparatus are thus arranged on the large table in the laboratory. Any one seeing the set would take them for an assortment of groceries in whity-brown paper bags.
For darkness, I use flower-pots filled with fresh, heaped sand. The mother and her cake occupy the lower portion, which is arranged as a nest by means of a cardboard screen forming a ceiling and supporting the sand above. Or else I simply put the mother on the surface of the sand with a supply of provisions. She digs herself a burrow, does her warehousing, makes herself a nest and things happen as usual. In all cases, a sheet of glass used as a lid answers for my prisoners’ safety. I rely upon these several dark apparatus to inform me about a delicate point the particulars whereof will be set forth in their proper place.
What do the glass jars covered with an opaque sheath teach us? They teach us much, of a most interesting character, and this to begin with: the big loaf does not owe its curve—which is always regular, notwithstanding its varying form—to any rolling process. The inspection of the natural burrow has already told us that so large [[71]]a mass could not have been rolled into a cavity of which it fills almost the whole space. Besides, the strength of the insect would be unequal to moving so great a load.
Questioned from time to time, the jar repeats the same conclusion for our benefit. I see the mother, hoisted atop the piece, feeling here, feeling there, bestowing little taps, smoothing away the projecting points, perfecting the thing; never do I catch her looking as though she wanted to turn the block. It is as clear as daylight: rolling has nothing whatever to do with the matter.