Such is the concatenation of instinctive actions, linked one to the other in an order which the gravest circumstances are powerless to disturb. What, after all, is the Bembex looking for? Her larva, obviously. But, to get at that larva, she must enter the burrow; and, to enter that burrow, she must first of all find the door. And it is in the search for this door that the mother persists, despite the wide-open gallery, despite the provisions, despite the grub, all exposed to view. At the moment she cares not that her house is in ruins and her family in danger; what she wants above all things is the familiar passage, the passage through the loose sand. Perish everything, dwelling and inmate, if this passage be not found! Her actions are like a series of echoes each awakening the next in a settled order, which allows none to sound until the previous one has sounded. The first action could not be performed, not because of an obstacle, for the house is wide open, but for want of the usual entrance. That is enough: the subsequent actions shall not be performed; the first echo was dumb and all the rest are silent. What a gulf separates intelligence and instinct! Through the ruins of the demolished dwelling, a mother guided by intelligence hurries straight to her son; guided by instinct, she comes to a stubborn halt on the site of her old door. CHAPTER XVIII THE HAIRY AMMOPHILA One day in May I was walking up and down, on the look-out for anything fresh that might be taking place in the harmas [43] laboratory. Favier was not far off, at work in the kitchen-garden. Who is Favier? I may as well say a few words about him at once, for we shall be hearing of him again. Favier is an old soldier. He has pitched his hut of clay and branches under the African carob-trees; he has eaten Sea-urchins at Constantinople; he has shot Starlings in the Crimea, during a lull in the firing. He has seen much and remembered much. In winter, when work in the fields ends at four o’clock and the evenings are long, he puts away rake, fork, and barrow and comes and sits on the hearth-stone of the kitchen fireplace, where the billets of ilex-wood blaze merrily. He fetches out his pipe, fills it methodically with a moistened thumb and smokes it solemnly. He has been thinking of it for many a long hour; but he has abstained, for tobacco is expensive. The privation has doubled the charm; and not a puff, recurring at regular intervals, is wasted. Meanwhile, we start talking. Favier is, in his fashion, one of those bards of old who were given the best seat at the hearth, for the sake of their tales; only, my story-teller was formed in the barrack-room. No matter: the whole household, large and small, listen to him with interest; though his speech is full of vivid images, it is always decent. It would be a great disappointment to us if he did not come, when his work was done, to take his ease in the chimney-corner.