So thought Cousin Benedict.  But it was a long distance from his skull, which was rather pointed, to the end of his nose, which was very long.  How many other roads the capricious insect might take, beside his ears, beside his forehead—­roads that would take it to a distance from the savant’s eyes—­without counting that at any moment it might retake its flight, leave the hut, and lose itself in those solar rays where, doubtless, its life was passed, and in the midst of the buzzing of its congeners that would attract it outside!

Cousin Benedict said all that to himself.  Never, in all his life as an entomologist, had he passed more touching minutes.  An African hexapode, of a new species, or, at least, of a new variety, or even of a new sub-variety, was there on his head, and he could not recognize it except it deigned to walk at least an inch from his eyes.

However, Cousin Benedict’s prayer must be heard.  The insect, after having traveled over the half-bald head, as on the summit of some wild bush, began to descend Cousin Benedict’s forehead, and the latter might at last conceive the hope that it would venture to the top of his nose.  Once arrived at that top, why would it not descend to the base?

“In its place, I—­I would descend,” thought the worthy savant.

What is truer than that, in Cousin Benedict’s place, any other would have struck his forehead violently, so as to crush the enticing insect, or at least to put it to flight.  To feel six feet moving on his skin, without speaking of the fear of being bitten, and not make a gesture, one will agree that it was the height of heroism.  The Spartan allowing his breast to be devoured by a fox; the Roman holding burning coals between his fingers, were not more masters of themselves than Cousin Benedict, who was undoubtedly descended from those two heroes.

After twenty little circuits, the insect arrived at the top of the nose.  Then there was a moment’s hesitation that made all Cousin Benedict’s blood rush to his heart.  Would the hexapode ascend again beyond the line of the eyes, or would it descend below?

It descended.  Cousin Benedict felt its caterpillar feet coming toward the base of his nose.  The insect turned neither to the right nor to the left.  It rested between its two buzzing wings, on the slightly hooked edge of that learned nose, so well formed to carry spectacles.  It cleared the little furrow produced by the incessant use of that optical instrument, so much missed by the poor cousin, and it stopped just at the extremity of his nasal appendage.

It was the best place this haxapode could choose.  At that distance, Cousin Benedict’s two eyes, by making their visual rays converge, could, like two lens, dart their double look on the insect.

“Almighty God!” exclaimed Cousin Benedict, who could not repress a cry, “the tuberculous manticore.”

Now, he must not cry it out, he must only think it.  But was it not too much to ask from the most enthusiastic of entomologists?