When we attempted discreetly to lift the veil of his first retirement from Orange, which seemed to us peculiarly characteristic of his private life, we had occasion to note the eminently domestic nature of his life and work, and the assiduous collaboration in the common task of the first-born of his children. We have seen Antonia, Claire, Jules and Emile [122] rivalling one another in their eagerness to assist in their father’s observations, and this charming devotion outlived the youthful ardour of the early springtide of life. Sometimes, too, the children anticipate their father’s entomological desires. For example, his son Emile sends him from the neighbourhood of Marseilles a nest of resin-working Hymenoptera. [123] His daughter Claire sends him, from another part of Provence, an entomological document of such value that it “reawakened all the enthusiasm of his early years.” It related to one of his favourite insects, another Hymenopteron, the Nest-building Odynerus. It was the end of February. The weather was mild; the sun was kind. Setting out in a family party, with food for the children, apples, and a piece of a loaf in the basket, we were going to see the almond-trees in flower. When it was time for lunch we halted under the great oak-trees, when Anna, the youngest of the household, always on the look-out for small creatures with her new, six-year-old eyes, called to me, at a few paces’ distance from our party. “An animal,” she said, “two, three, four—and pretty ones! Come and see, papa, come and see!” [124] This was one of the rarest discoveries: a dozen specimens of the Pearly Trox, which were making a meal off a little rabbit’s down which some fox’s stomach had been unable to exploit. “There is every sort of taste in this world, so that nothing shall be wasted!” And not once or twice, but every moment almost, little Paul, [125] Marie Pauline, [126] and Anna enliven the narrative by their delightful appearances and their inventive activity. Little Paul above all is an auxiliary of the highest value, who deserves to be introduced to the reader as an acknowledged collaborator: I speak of my son Paul, a little chap of seven. My assiduous companion on my hunting expeditions, he knows better than any one of his age the secrets of the Cicada, the Locust, the Cricket, and especially the Dung-beetle, his great delight. Twenty paces away, his sharp eyes will distinguish the real mound that marks a burrow from casual heaps of earth; his delicate ears catch the Grasshopper’s faint stridulation, which to me remains silent. He lends me his sight and hearing; and I, in exchange, present him with ideas, which he receives attentively, raising wide, blue, questioning eyes to mine.