I must do myself the justice to say that I have never committed such a misdeed, and yet one day when I was lying on the sand, absorbed in the domestic affairs of a Bembex, I heard beside me, “In the name of the law, I summon you to follow me!” It was the garde-champêtre of Les Angles, who having vainly watched for an opportunity of catching me in some offence, and being daily more desirous of an answer to the riddle which tormented him, had finally decided on a summons. An explanation became necessary. The poor man did not appear in the least convinced. “Bah! bah!” said he, “you’ll never get me to believe that you come and roast yourself in the sun just to watch flies. I keep my eye on you, you know, and the first time.... Well, that’s enough.” He departed. I have always believed that my red ribbon had a good deal to do with this departure, and I ascribe to that ribbon other similar services during my botanical or entomological rambles. It seemed to me—was it an illusion?—it did seem to me that during my botanical expeditions on Mont Ventoux, the guide was more manageable than usual and the donkey less obstinate. The little dark red ribbon has not always protected me from the tribulations the entomologist must expect when carrying on experiments upon the highway. Since dawn I had been lying in ambush at the bottom of a ravine; Sphex occitanica was the object of my early visit. A party of three women vintagers passed on their way to work. A glance was cast on the seated figure apparently lost in thought. “Good day” was politely offered and politely answered. At sunset the women returned with full baskets. The man was still there, seated on the same stone, his eyes fixed on the same spot. My motionless figure, my persistent stay in that lonely place, must have struck them greatly. As they passed I saw one tap her forehead, and heard her whisper, “A poor innocent, pe’caïre! a poor innocent!” and all three made the sign of the cross. An innocent, an idiot, a poor inoffensive creature who is deficient; and all three crossed themselves—an idiot being one to them marked by God’s seal. “How?” said I. “What cruel mockery of fate! You who are labouring to discover what is instinct and what reason in the animal; you yourself are a half-wit in the eyes of these women! What humiliation! However, pe’caïre, that term of supreme commiseration in Provençal, uttered from the bottom of the heart, made me quickly forget the Innocent.”