It is lucky that the Cacan does not follow the laws of evolution.  If, more enthusiastic in each generation, it could acquire, in the course of progress, a ventral resonator comparable to my paper trumpets, the South of France would sooner or later become uninhabitable, and the Cacan would have Provence to itself.

After the details already given concerning the common Cigale it is hardly needful to tell you how the insupportable Cacan can be reduced to silence.  The cymbals are plainly visible on the exterior.  Pierce them with the point of a needle, and immediately you have perfect silence.  If only there were, in my plane-trees, among the insects which carry gimlets, some friends of silence like myself, who would devote themselves to such a task!  But no:  a note would be lacking in the majestic symphony of harvest-tide.

We are now familiar with the structure of the musical organ of the Cigale.  Now the question arises:  What is the object of these musical orgies?  The reply seems obvious:  they are the call of the males inviting their mates; they constitute a lovers’ cantata.

I am going to consider this reply, which is certainly a very natural one.  For thirty years the common Cigale and his unmusical friend the Cacan have thrust their society upon me.  For two months every summer I have them under my eyes, and their voice in my ears.  If I do not listen to them very willingly I observe them with considerable zeal.  I see them ranged in rows on the smooth rind of the plane-trees, all with their heads uppermost, the two sexes mingled, and only a few inches apart.

The proboscis thrust into the bark, they drink, motionless.  As the sun moves, and with it the shadow, they also move round the branch with slow lateral steps, so as to keep upon that side which is most brilliantly illuminated, most fiercely heated.  Whether the proboscis is at work or not the song is never interrupted.

Now are we to take their interminable chant for a passionate love-song?  I hesitate.  In this gathering the two sexes are side by side.  One does not spend months in calling a person who is at one’s elbow.  Moreover, I have never seen a female rush into the midst of even the most deafening orchestra.  Sight is a sufficient prelude to marriage, for their sight is excellent.  There is no need for the lover to make an everlasting declaration, for his mistress is his next-door neighbour.

Is the song a means of charming, of touching the hard of heart?  I doubt it.  I observe no sign of satisfaction in the females; I have never seen them tremble or sway upon their feet, though their lovers have clashed their cymbals with the most deafening vigour.

My neighbours the peasants say that at harvest-time the Cigale sings to them:  Sego, sego, sego! (Reap, reap, reap!) to encourage them in their work.  Harvesters of ideas and of ears of grain, we follow the same calling; the latter produce food for the stomach, the former food for the mind.  Thus I understand their explanation and welcome it as an example of gracious simplicity.