“To restore order, the working-bees that were away during the tumult come and join the bees left in the hive. Two young queens set up their rights. Which of them shall reign? A duel to the death shall decide it. They come out of their cells. Hardly have they caught sight of each other when they join in shock of battle, rear upright, seize with their mandibles each an antenna of the other, and hold themselves head to head, breast to breast. In this position, each would only have to bend the end of its stomach a little to plunge its poisoned sting into its rival’s body. But that would be a double death, and their instinct forbids them a mode of assault in which both would perish. They separate and retire. But the people gathered around them prevent their getting away: one of them must succumb. The two queens return to the attack. The more skilful one, at a moment when the other is off guard, jumps on its rival’s back, seizes it where the wing joins the body, and stings it in the side. The victim stretches its legs and dies. All is over. Royal unity is restored, and the hive proceeds to resume its accustomed order and work.”
“The bees are very naughty to force the queens to kill one another until there is only one left,” commented Emile.
“It is necessary, my little friend; their instinct demands it. Otherwise civil war would rage unceasingly in the hive. But this hard necessity does not make them forget for one moment the respect due to royal dignity. What is to prevent their getting rid of the superfluous queens themselves, even as they so unceremoniously get rid of the drones? But this they are very careful not to do. What one of their number would dare to draw the sword against their sovereigns, even when they are a serious encumbrance? The saving of life not being in their power, they save honor by letting the pretenders fight it out among themselves.
“There is always the possibility that the queen, at a time when she is reigning alone and supreme, may perish by accident or die of old age. The bees press respectfully around the deceased; they brush her tenderly, offer her honey as if to revive her; turn her over, feel her lovingly, and treat her with all the regard they gave to her when alive. It takes several days for them to understand, at last, that she is dead, quite dead, and that all their attentions are useless. Then there is general mourning. Every evening for two or three days a lugubrious humming, a sort of funeral dirge, is heard in the hive.
“The mourning over, they think about replacing the queen. A young larva is chosen from those in the common cells. It was born to be a wax-bee, but circumstances are going to confer royalty upon it. The working-bees begin by destroying the cells adjacent to the one occupied by the sacred larva, the queen that is to be by unanimous consent. The rearing of royalty requires more space. This being secured, the remaining cell is enlarged and shaped like a thimble, as willed by the high destiny of the nursling it contains. For several days the larva is fed with royal paste, that sugary pap that makes queens, and the miracle is accomplished. The queen is dead, long live the queen!”
“The story of the bees is the best you have told us,” declared Jules.
“I think so too,” his uncle assented; “that is why I kept it till the last.”
“What—the last?” cried Jules.
“You are not going to tell us any more stories?” asked Claire.
“Never, never?” Emile put in.