But the insect makes no mistake: the excavations under my pencil-marks bear witness to that; it always directs its apparatus towards the hollow of a cell. How is it apprised whether the part below is empty or full? Its organs of information are undoubtedly the antennae, which feel the ground. They are two fingers of unparalleled delicacy, which pry into the basement by tapping on the part above it. Then what do those puzzling organs perceive? A smell? Not at all; I always had my doubts of that and now I am certain of the contrary, after what I shall describe in a moment. Do they perceive a sound? Are we to treat them as a superior kind of microphone, capable of collecting the infinitesimal echoes of what is full and the reverberations of what is empty? It is an attractive idea, but unfortunately the antennae play their part equally well on a host of occasions when there are no vaults to reverberate. We know nothing and are perhaps destined never to know anything of the real value of the antennal sense, to which we have nothing analogous; but, though it is impossible for us to say what it does perceive, we are at least able to recognize to some extent what it does not perceive and, in particular, to deny it the faculty of smell.
As a matter of fact, I notice, with extreme surprise, that the great majority of the cells visited by the Leucopsis' probe do not contain the one thing which the insect is seeking, namely, the young larva of the Mason-bee enclosed in its cocoon. Their contents consist of the refuse so often met with in old Chalicodoma-nests: liquid honey left unemployed, because the egg has perished; spoilt provisions, sometimes mildewed, or sometimes a tarry mass; a dead larva, stiffened into a brown cylinder; the shrivelled corpse of a perfect insect, which lacked the strength to effect its deliverance; dust and rubbish which has come from the exit-window afterwards closed up by the outer coating of plaster. The odoriferous effluvia that can emanate from these relics certainly possess very diverse characters. A sense of smell with any subtlety at all would not be deceived by this stuff, sour, 'high,' musty or tarry as the case may be; each compartment, according to its contents, has a special aroma, which we might or might not be able to perceive; and this aroma most certainly bears no resemblance to that which we may assume the much-desired fresh larva to possess. If nevertheless the Leucopsis does not distinguish between these various cells and drives the probe into all of them indifferently, is this not an evident proof that smell is no guide whatever to her in her search? Other considerations, when I was treating of the Hairy Ammophila, enabled me to assert that the antennae have no olfactory powers. To-day, the frequent mistakes of the Leucopsis, whose antennae are nevertheless constantly exploring the surface, make this conclusion absolutely certain.
The perforator of clay nests has, so it seems to me, delivered us from an old physiological fallacy. She would deserve studying, if for no other result than this; but her interest is far from being exhausted. Let us look at her from another point of view, whose full importance will not be apparent until the end; let us speak of something which I was very far from suspecting when I was so assiduously watching the nests of my Mason-bees.
The same cell can receive the Leucopsis' probe a number of times, at intervals of several days. I have said how I used to mark in black the exact place at which the laying-implement had entered and how I wrote the date of the operation beside it. Well, at many of these already visited spots, concerning which I possessed the most authentic documents, I saw the insect return a second, a third and even a fourth time, either on the same day or some while after, and drive its inoculating-thread in again, at precisely the same place, as though nothing had happened. Was it the same individual repeating her operation in a cell which she had visited before but forgotten, or different individuals coming one after the other to lay an egg in a compartment thought to be unoccupied? I cannot say, having neglected to mark the operators, for fear of disturbing them.
As there is nothing, except the mark of my pencil, a mark devoid of meaning to the insect, to indicate that the auger has already been at work there, it may easily happen that the same operator, finding under her feet a spot already exploited by herself but effaced from her memory, repeats the thrust of her tool in a compartment which she believes herself to be discovering for the first time. However retentive its memory for places may be, we cannot admit that the insect remembers for weeks on end, as well as point by point, the topography of a nest covering a surface of some square yards. Its recollections, if it have any, serve it badly; the outward appearance gives it no information; and its drill enters wherever it may happen to discover a cell, at points that have already perhaps been pierced several times over.
It may also happen—and this appears to me the most frequent case—that one exploiter of a cell is succeeded by a second, a third, a fourth and others still, all fired with the newcomer's zeal because their predecessors have left no trace of their passage. In one way or another, the same cell is exposed to manifold layings, though its contents, the Chalicodoma-grub, be only the bare ration of a single Leucopsis-grub.
These reiterated borings are not at all rare: I noted a score of them on my tiles; and, in the case of some cells, the operation was repeated before my eyes as often as four times. Nothing tells us that this number was not exceeded in my absence. The little that I observed prevents me from fixing any limit. And now a momentous question arises: is the egg really laid each time that the probe enters a cell? I can see not the slightest excuse for supposing the contrary. The ovipositor, because of its horny nature, can have but a very dull sense of touch. The insect is apprised of the contents of the cell only by the end of that long horse-hair, a not very trustworthy witness, I should imagine. The absence of resistance tells it that it has reached an empty space; and this is probably the only information that the insensible implement can supply. The drill boring through the rock cannot tell the miner anything about the contents of the cavern which it has entered; and the case must be the same with the rigid filament of the Leucopses.
Now that the thread has reached its goal, what does the cell contain? Mildewed honey, dust and rubbish, a shrivelled larva, or a larva in good condition? Above all, does it already contain an egg? This last question calls for a definite answer, but as a matter of fact it is impossible for the insect to learn anything from a horse-hair on that most delicate matter, the presence or absence of an egg, a mere atom of a thing, in that vast apartment. Even admitting some sense of touch at the end of the drill, one insuperable difficulty would always remain: that of finding the exact spot where the tiny speck lies in those spacious and mysterious regions. I go so far as to believe that the ovipositor tells the insect nothing, or at any rate very little, of the inside of the cell, whether propitious or not to the development of the germ. Perhaps each thrust of the instrument, provided that it meets with no resistance from solid matter, lays the egg, to whose lot there falls at one time good, wholesome food, at another mere refuse.
These anomalies call for more conclusive proofs than the rough deductions drawn from the nature of the horny ovipositor. We must ascertain in a direct fashion whether the cell into which the auger has been driven several times over actually contains several occupants in addition to the larva of the Mason-bee. When the Leucopses had finished their borings, I waited a few days longer so as to give the young grubs time to develop a little, which would make my examination easier. I then moved the tiles to the table in my study, in order to investigate their secrets with the most scrupulous care. And here such a disappointment as I have rarely known awaited me. The cells which I had seen, actually seen, with my own eyes, pierced by the probe two or three or even four times, contained but one Leucopsis-grub, one alone, eating away at its Chalicodoma. Others, which had also been repeatedly probed, contained spoilt remnants, but never a Leucopsis. O holy patience, give me the courage to begin again! Dispel the darkness and deliver me from doubt!
I begin again. The Leucopsis-grub is familiar to me; I can recognize it, without the possibility of a mistake, in the nests of both the Chalicodoma of the Pebbles and the Chalicodoma of the Sheds. All through the winter, I rush about, getting my nests from the roofs of old sheds and the pebbles of the waste-lands; I stuff my pockets with them, fill my box, load Favier's knapsack; I collect enough to litter all the tables in my study; and, when it is too cold out of doors, when the biting mistral blows, I tear open the fine silk of the cocoons to discover the inhabitant. Most of them contain the Mason in the perfect state; others give me the larva of the Anthrax; others—very numerous, these—give me the larva of the Leucopsis. And this last is alone, always alone, invariably alone. The whole thing is utterly incomprehensible when one knows, as I know, how many times the probe entered those cells.