September is not yet over when the shining white as of ivory gives way to the yellow hue of cheese.  During the first days of October you may see, at the forward end of the egg, two tiny points of chestnut brown, which are the eyes of the embryo in formation.  These two shining eyes, which almost seem to gaze at one, and the cone-shaped head of the egg, give it the look of a tiny fish without fins—­a fish for whom half a nut-shell would make a capacious aquarium.

About the same time I notice frequently, on the asphodels in the paddock and on those of the neighbouring hills, certain indications that the eggs have recently hatched out.  There are certain cast-off articles of clothing, certain rags and tatters, left on the threshold of the egg-chamber by the new-born grubs as they leave it and hurry in search of a new lodging.  We shall see in a moment what these vestiges mean.

But in spite of my visits, which were so assiduous as to deserve success, I had never contrived to see the young Cigales emerge from their egg-chambers.  My domestic researches had been pursued in vain.  Two years running I had collected, in boxes, tubes, and bottles, a hundred twigs of every kind which were peopled by the eggs of the Cigale; but not one had shown me what I so desired to witness:  the issue of the new-born Cigales.

Reaumur experienced the same disappointment.  He tells us how all the eggs supplied by his friends were abortive, even when he placed them in a glass tube thrust under his armpit, in order to keep them at a high temperature.  No, venerable master! neither the temperate shelter of our studies and laboratories, nor the incubating warmth of our bodies is sufficient here; we need the supreme stimulant, the kiss of the sun; after the cool of the mornings, which are already sharp, the sudden blaze of the superb autumn weather, the last endearments of summer.

It was under such circumstances, when a blazing sun followed a cold night, that I found the signs of completed incubation; but I always came too late; the young Cigales had departed.  At most I sometimes found one hanging by a thread to its natal stem and struggling in the air.  I supposed it to be caught in a thread of gossamer, or some shred of cobweb.

At last, on the 27th of October, despairing of success, I gathered some asphodels from the orchard, and the armful of dry twigs in which the Cigales had laid their eggs was taken up to my study.  Before giving up all hope I proposed once more to examine the egg-chambers and their contents.  The morning was cold, and the first fire of the season had been lit in my room.  I placed my little bundle on a chair before the fire, but without any intention of testing the effect of the heat of the flames upon the concealed eggs.  The twigs, which I was about to cut open, one by one, were placed there to be within easy reach of my hand, and for no other reason.