not be able
to turn from end to end; he will not even be capable of bending, if
some sudden wind should make the passage difficult. He must absolutely
find the door in front of him, lest he perish in the casket. Should the
grub forget this little formality, should it lie down to its nymphal
sleep with its head at the back of the cell, the Capricorn is
infallibly lost: his cradle becomes a hopeless dungeon.

But there is no fear of this danger: the knowledge of our bit of an
intestine is too sound in things of the future for the grub to neglect
the formality of keeping its head to the door. At the end of spring,
the Capricorn, now in possession of his full strength, dreams of the
joys of the sun, of the festivals of light. He wants to get out. What
does he find before him? A heap of filings easily dispersed with his
claws; next, a stone lid which he need not even break into fragments:
it comes undone in one piece; it is removed from its frame with a few
pushes of the forehead, a few tugs of the claws. In fact, I find the
lid intact on the threshold of the abandoned cells. Last comes a second
mass of woody remnants, as easy to disperse as the first. The road is
now free: the Cerambyx has but to follow the spacious vestibule, which
will lead him, without the possibility of mistake, to the exit. Should
the window not be open, all that he has to do is to gnaw through a thin
screen: an easy task; and behold him outside, his long antennae aquiver
with excitement.

What have we learnt from him? Nothing, from him; much from his grub.
This grub, so poor in sensory organs, gives us no little food for
reflection with its prescience. It knows that the coming Beetle will
not be able to cut himself a road through the oak and it bethinks
itself of opening one for him at its own risk and peril. It knows that
the Cerambyx, in his stiff armour, will never be able to turn and make
for the orifice of the cell; and it takes care to fall into its nymphal
sleep with its head to the door. It knows how soft the pupa's flesh
will be and upholsters the bedroom with velvet. It knows that the enemy
is likely to break in during the slow work of the transformation and,
to set a bulwark against his attacks, it stores a calcium pap inside
its stomach. It knows the future with a clear vision, or, to be
accurate, behaves as though it knew it. Whence did it derive the
motives of its actions? Certainly not from the experience of the
senses. What does it