The second, Marius Guigne, is a blind man who, a carpenter by profession, handles his plane and saw in the blackest darkness with the same sureness of hand as that of a skilful-sighted person in broad daylight. He lost his sight in his youth, after he had known the joys of light and the wonders of colour. As a compensation for perpetual darkness he has acquired a gentle philosophy, always smiling; an ardent desire to fill, as far as possible, the gaps in his meagre primary education; a sensitiveness of hearing able to seize the subtle delicacies of music; and a fineness of touch most extraordinary in fingers calloused by the labours of the workshop. During our conversations, if he wishes to be informed as to this or that geometrical property, he holds out his widely-opened hand. This is our blackboard. With the tip of my forefinger, I trace on it the figure to be constructed; accompanying my light touches with a brief explanation. This is enough; the idea is grasped, and the saw, plane, and lathe will translate it into reality. On Sunday afternoons, in winter especially, when three logs flaming on the hearth form a delicious contrast to the brutalities of the Mistral, they meet in my house. The three of us form the village Athenæum, the Rural Institute, where we speak of everything except hateful politics.... At such a meeting, the delight of my solitude, to-day’s dinner was devised. The special dish consists of the cossus, a delicacy of great renown in ancient times. When he had eaten a sufficient number of nations, the Roman, brutalised by excess of luxury, began to eat worms. Pliny tells us: “Romanis in hoc luxuria esse cœpit, prægrandesque roborum vermes delicatiore sunt in cibo: Cossos vocant.” (The Romans have reached such a degree of luxury at the table that they esteem as delicious tit-bits the great worm from the oak-tree known as Cossus.) I do not know with what sauce the Cossus was eaten in the days of the Cæsars, the Apicius of the period having left us no information on this point. Ortolans are roasted on a spit; it would be profaning them to add the relish of complicated preparation. Let us proceed in the same manner with the Cossus, these Ortolans of entomology. Spitted in rows, they are exposed on the grill to the heat of live embers. A pinch of salt, the necessary condiment of our dish, is the only addition made to it. The roast grows golden, softly sizzling, weeps a few oily tears which catch fire on contact with the coals and burn with a white flame. It is done! Let us serve it hot.