There we have Fabre. After labouring all his life without troubling about fame, ploughing his straight furrow like his peasant forebears, like them, when the night has come, he simply binds his sheaves with a humble and profound realisation of the narrow limits of his work as compared with the immensity of the world and the infinite mystery of things. It is a fine spectacle, that of the entomologist on the summits of science, as of fame, raising himself, by his humility, above both, and fully prepared, to return to Him toward whom aspire those souls that have attained the limit of human climbing: O Jesu corona celsior Et veritas sublimior. III Neither science nor fame could prevent him from suffering. To begin with, there is suffering attaching to these, for all labour has its burden, all light its shadow. This none knew better than he whose genius was a protracted patience and his life a hard-fought battle. And as though it was his destiny to suffer to the end, he did suffer still when the tardy hour of his fame had struck. Was it not an ordeal still to be assailed by visits and speeches when “nothing was left but rest and silence”? How can a man delight in the incense of his admirers when he is broken with fatigue? To express this contrast, to show that all was not unmixed joy in these flattering visits to the patriarch of Sérignan, I will borrow the delicate brush of an artist friend of Fabre’s: Night falls upon Sérignan, serene, limpid, violet and amethyst. The sounds of day fade one by one. Still a few distant hoots from the horns of motor-cars flying along the dusty roads, or the sound of a dog baying the new moon, which shows its slender sickle on the horizon; sometimes, too, as though to eclipse the first stars, a rocket roars, a prelude to the fireworks which are about to conclude the apotheosis.... J. H. Fabre, the hero of the fête, the lover of the Sphex, the Mantis, the Dung-beetle, is very tired. Think of it—ninety years of age, and almost ninety years of labour!... and a world-wide reputation to sustain ... and visits to receive. To-day it was the visit of a Minister and all the flies on the ministerial wheel. And he had to return thanks, feeling upon him the eyes of the reporters and the photographer’s lens. What an ordeal! Fabre can hold out no longer!... Do you not feel that the harvest of fame at ninety years of age and after almost ninety years of labour is perhaps even more painful than the harvest of science in the ardour of youth?