The blunt end of the nest is the first part built by the Praying Mantis and the tapering end the last. The latter is often prolonged into a sort of spur made by drawing out the final drop of albuminous fluid used. To complete the whole thing demands about two hours of concentrated work, free from interruption.
As soon as the laying is finished, the mother withdraws, callously. I expected to see her return and display some tender feeling for the cradle of her family. But there is not the least sign of maternal joy. The work is done and possesses no further interest for her. Some Locusts have come up. One even perches on the nest. The Mantis pays no attention to the intruders. They are peaceful, it is true. Would she drive them away if they were dangerous and if they looked like ripping open the egg-casket? Her impassive behaviour answers no. What is the nest to her henceforth? She knows it no more.
I have spoken of the repeated coupling of the Praying Mantis and of the tragic end of the male, who is nearly always devoured like [[164]]an ordinary piece of game. In the space of a fortnight I have seen the same female marry again as many as seven times over. Each time the easily-consoled widow ate up her mate. Such habits make one assume repeated layings; and these do, in fact, take place, though they are not the general rule. Among my mothers, some gave me only one nest; others supplied me with two, both equally large. The most fertile produced three, of which the first two were of normal size, while the third was reduced to half the usual dimensions.
The last-mentioned insect shall tell us the population which the Mantis’ ovaries are capable of producing. Reckoning by the transversal furrows of the nest, we can easily count the layers of eggs. These are more or less rich according to their position at the middle of the ellipsoid or at the ends. The numbers of the eggs in the biggest and in the smallest layer furnish an average from which we can approximately deduce the total. In this way I find that a good-sized nest contains about four hundred eggs. The mother with the three nests, the last of which was only half the size of the others, therefore left as her offspring no fewer than a thousand [[165]]germs; those who laid twice left eight hundred; and the less fertile mothers three to four hundred. In every case, it is a fine family, which would even become cumbrous, if it were not subjected to drastic pruning.
The pretty little Grey Mantis is much less lavish. In my cages she lays only once; and her nest contains some sixty eggs at most. Although built on the same principles and likewise fixed in the open, it differs remarkably from the work of the Praying Mantis, first in its scanty dimensions and next in certain details of structure. It is shaped like a shelving ridge. The two sides are curved and the median line projects into a slightly denticulated crest. It is grooved crosswise by about a dozen furrows, corresponding with the several layers of eggs. Here we find no exit-zone, with short, imbricated scales; no snowy ribbon with alternating outlets. The whole surface, including the foundation, is uniformly covered with a shiny red-brown rind, in which the bubbles are very small. One end is ogival in shape; the other, the end where the nest finishes, is abruptly truncated and is prolonged above in a short spur. The whole forms a kernel surrounded by the foamy rind. Like the Praying [[166]]Mantis, the Grey Mantis works at night, an unfortunate circumstance for the observer.
Large in size, curious in build and moreover plainly visible on its stone or its bit of brushwood, the Praying Mantis’ nest could not fail to attract the attention of the Provençal peasant. It is, in fact, very well-known in the country districts, where it bears the name of tigno; it even enjoys a great reputation. Yet nobody seems to be aware of its origin. It is always a matter for surprise to my rustic neighbours when I inform them that the famous tigno is the nest of the common Prègo-Diéu. Their ignorance might well be due to the Mantis’ habit of laying her eggs at night. The insect has never been caught working at her nest in the mysterious darkness; and the link between the worker and the work is missing, though both are known to every one in the village.
No matter: the singular object exists; it attracts the eye, it captivates the attention. It must therefore be good for something, it must possess virtues. Thus, throughout the ages, have the ingenuous argued, hoping to find in the unfamiliar an alleviation of their pains.
By general consent, the rural pharmacopœia, [[167]]in Provence, extols the tigno as the best remedy against chilblains. The way to employ it is exceedingly simple. You cut the thing in two, squeeze it and rub the afflicted part with the streaming juice. The remedy, they say, works like a charm. Every one mad with the itching of blue and swollen fingers hastens to have recourse to the tigno, according to traditional custom. Does he really obtain relief?
Notwithstanding the unanimous conviction, I venture to doubt it, after the fruitless experiments tried upon myself and other members of my household during the winter of 1895, when the long and severe frost produced any amount of epidermic discomfort. Not one of us, when smeared with the celebrated ointment, saw the chilblains on his fingers decrease nor felt the irritation relieved in the slightest degree by the albuminous varnish of the crushed tigno. It seems probable that others are no more successful and that the popular reputation of the specific nevertheless survives, probably because of a mere identity of name between the remedy and the disease: the Provençal for chilblain is tigno. Once that the nest of the Praying Mantis and the chilblain are [[168]]known by the same name, do not the virtues of the former become obvious? That is how reputations are created.
In my village and no doubt for some distance around, the tigno—I am now speaking of the Mantis’ nest—is also highly praised as a wonderful cure for toothache. As long as you have it on you, you need never fear that trouble. Our housewives gather it under a favourable moon; they preserve it religiously in a corner of the press; they sew it into their pocket, lest they should lose it when taking out their handkerchief; and neighbours borrow it when tortured by some molar.