A few, but only a few, emerge from the mass. By the central mast or the walls of the purse they climb to the opening. Do they wish to take flight and escape? By no means. On the threshold of the cavity, while already almost at liberty, they allow themselves to fall into the whirlpool, retaken by their madness. The lure is irresistible. None will break free from the swarm until the evening, or perhaps the next day, when the heady fumes will have evaporated. Then the units of the swarm disengage themselves from their mutual embraces, and slowly, as though regretfully, take flight and depart. At the bottom of this devil's purse remains a heap of the dead and dying, of severed limbs and wing-covers torn off; the inevitable sequels of the frantic orgy. Soon the woodlice, earwigs, and ants will appear to prey upon the injured. What are these insects doing? Were they the prisoners of the flower, converted into a trap which allowed them to enter but prevented their escape by means of a palisade of converging hairs? No, they were not prisoners; they had full liberty to escape, as is proved by the final exodus, which is in no way impeded. Deceived by a fallacious odour, were they endeavouring to lay and establish their eggs as they would have done under the shelter of a corpse? No; there is no trace of eggs in the purse of the Arum. They came convoked by the odour of a decaying body, their supreme delight; an intoxication seized them, and they rushed into the eddying swarm to take part in a festival of carrion-eaters. I was anxious to count the number of those attracted. At the height of the bacchanal I emptied the purse into a bottle. Intoxicated as they were, many would escape my census, and I wished to ensure its accuracy. A few drops of carbon bisulphide quieted the swarm. The census proved that there were more than four hundred insects in the purse of the Arum. The collection consisted entirely of two species--Dermestes and Saprinidae--both eager prospectors of carrion and animal detritus during the spring. My friend Bull, an honest dog all his lifetime if ever there was one, amongst other eccentricities had the following: finding in the dust of the road the shrivelled body of a mole, flattened by the feet of pedestrians, mummified by the heat of the sun, he would slide himself over it, from the tip of his nose to the root of his tail, he would rub himself against it deliciously over and over again, shaken with nervous spasms, and roll upon it first in one direction, then in the other. It was his sachet of musk, his flask of eau-de-Cologne. Perfumed to his liking, he would rise, shake himself, and proceed on his way, delighted with his toilet. Do not let us scold him, and above all do not let us discuss the matter. There are all kinds of tastes in a world.