“But, my innocent child, it has none, nor anything like them. It has only a proboscis, incapable of the slightest effort.”
“With its claws then?” suggested Jules.
“Yes, if it had any strong enough. The trouble is, it is not provided with any.”
“But it must be able to get out,” persisted Jules.
“Doubtless it will get out. Has not every creature resources in the difficult moments of life! To break the hen’s egg that imprisons it, the tiny little chicken has at the end of its beak a little hard point made on purpose; and the butterfly is to have nothing to open its cocoon? Oh, yes! But you would never guess the singular tool that it will use. It will use its eyes—”
“Its eyes?” interrupted Claire in amazement.
“Yes. Insects’ eyes are covered with a cap of transparent horn, hard and cut in facets. A magnifying glass is needed in order to distinguish these facets, they are so fine; but, fine as they are, they have sharp bones which all together can, in time of need, be used as a grater. The butterfly begins then by moistening with a drop of saliva the point of the cocoon it wishes to attack, and then, applying an eye to the spot thus softened, it writhes, knocks, scratches, files. One by one the threads of silk succumb to the rasping. The hole is made, the butterfly comes out. What do you think about it? Do not animals sometimes have intelligence enough for four? Which of us would have thought of forcing the prison walls by striking them with the eye?”
“The butterfly must have studied a long time to think of that ingenious way?” queried Emile.
“The butterfly does not study, does not reflect; it knows at once what to do and how to do well whatever concerns it. Another has reflected for it.”
“Who?”