The work is finished. It is a cigar of the diameter of a thick straw and about an inch long. It hangs perpendicularly from the end of the stalk bruised and bent at a sharp angle. It has taken the whole day to manufacture. After a short spell of rest, the mother tackles a second leaf and, working by night, obtains another cylinder. Two in twenty-four hours is as much as the most diligent can achieve. Now what is the roller’s object? Can she be preparing preserves for her own use? Obviously not: no insect, where itself alone is concerned, devotes such care and patience to the preparation of food. It is only with a view to the family that it hoards so industriously. The Rhynchites’ cigar forms a dowry for the future. Let us unroll it. Here, between the layers of the cylinder, is the egg; often there are two, three or even four. They are oval, pale-yellow, like fine drops of amber. Their adhesion to the leaf is very slight; the least jerk loosens them. They are distributed without order, tucked away more or less deeply in the thickness of the cigar and always isolated, one at a time. We find them in the centre of the scroll, almost at the corner where the rolling begins; we come upon them between the different layers and even near the edge sealed in glue with the signet of the rostrum. Without interrupting her work on the cylinder, without relaxing the tension of her claws, the mother laid them between the edges of the fold which she was forming, as she felt them coming, duly matured, at the end of her oviduct. She produces life in the very midst of her labours, amid the wheels of the machine which would be thrown out of gear if she snatched a moment’s rest. Industry and procreation go hand-in-hand. Short-lived, with but two or three weeks before her and an expensive family to establish, the mother Rhynchites would not dare to waste time in being churched. This is not all: on the same leaf, not far from the cylinder that is being laboriously rolled, we almost always find the male. What is he doing there, the lazybones? Is he watching the work as a mere onlooker, who happened to be passing and stopped to see the wheels go round? Is he interested in the business? Does he ever feel inclined to lend a helping hand in case of need? One would say so. From time to time I see him take his stand behind his industrious mate, in the furrow of the fold, hang on to the cylinder and join in the work for a little. But it is done listlessly and awkwardly. A bare half-turn of the wheel; and that’s enough for him. After all, it is not his affair. He moves away, to the other end of the leaf; he waits, he looks on. We will give him credit for this attempt, since paternal assistance in settling the family is rare among insects; we will congratulate him on the help which he gives, but not to excess: his assistance is interested. It is a means of declaring his flame and urging his merits.