I will take this opportunity of presenting a second point which embarrasses me; it is the carelessness—­it is worse than that—­the imbecility of the bee in the presence of the Philanthus.  One would naturally suppose that the persecuted insect, gradually instructed by family misfortune, would exhibit anxiety at the approach of the ravisher, and would at least try to escape.  But in my bell-glasses or wire-gauze cages I see nothing of the kind.  Once the first excitement due to imprisonment has passed the bee takes next to no notice of its terrible neighbour.  I have seen it side by side with Philanthus on the same flower; assassin and future victim were drinking from the same goblet.  I have seen it stupidly coming to inquire what the stranger might be, as the latter crouched watching on the floor.  When the murderer springs it is usually upon some bee which passes before her, and throws itself, so to speak, into her clutches; either thoughtlessly or out of curiosity.  There is no frantic terror, no sign of anxiety, no tendency to escape.  How is it that the experience of centuries, which is said to teach so much to the lower creatures, has not taught the bee even the beginning of apine wisdom:  a deep-rooted horror of the Philanthus?  Does the bee count upon its sting?  But the unhappy creature is no fencer; it thrusts without method, at random.  Nevertheless, let us watch it at the final and fatal moment.

When the ravisher brings her sting into play the bee also uses its sting, and with fury.  I see the point thrusting now in this direction, now in that; but in empty air, or grazing and slipping over the convexity of the murderer’s back, which is violently flexed.  These blows have no serious results.  In the position assumed by the two as they struggle the abdomen of the Philanthus is inside and that of the bee outside; thus the sting of the latter has under its point only the dorsal face of the enemy, which is convex and slippery, and almost invulnerable, so well is it armoured.  There is no breach there by which the sting might possibly enter; and the operation takes place with the certainty of a skilful surgeon using the lancet, despite the indignant protests of the patient.

The fatal stroke once delivered, the murderer remains for some time on the body of the victim, clasping it face to face, for reasons that we must now consider.  It may be that the position is perilous for Philanthus.  The posture of attack and self-protection is abandoned, and the ventral area, more vulnerable than the back, is exposed to the sting of the bee.  Now the dead bee retains for some minutes the reflex use of the sting, as I know to my cost:  for removing the bee too soon from the aggressor, and handling it carelessly, I have received a most effectual sting.  In her long embrace of the poisoned bee, how does Philanthus avoid this sting, which does not willingly give up its life without vengeance?  Are there not sometimes unexpected accidents?  Perhaps.