My artifices come to nothing; the session closes without result. A day passes, two days, three; still nothing happens. The Pompilus is assiduous in her visits to the honeyed flower-clusters; when she has eaten her fill, she clambers up the dome and makes interminable circuits of the netting;the Tarantula quietly munches her Locust. If the other passes within reach, she swiftly raises herself and waves her off. The artificial burrow, the reed-stump, fulfills its purpose excellently. The Lycosa and the Pompilus resort to it in turns, but without quarrelling. And that is all. The drama whose prologue was so full of promise appears to be indefinitely postponed.
I have a last resource, on which I base great hopes: it is to remove my two Calicurgi to the very site of their investigations and to install them at the door of the Spider's lodging, at the top of the natural burrow. I take the field with an equipment which I am carrying across the country for the first time: a glass bell-jar, a wire-gauze cover and the various implements needed for handling and transferring my irascible and dangerous subjects.
My search for burrows among the pebbles and the tufts of thyme and lavender is soon successful.
Here is a splendid one. I learn by inserting a straw that it is inhabited by a Tarantula of a size suited to my plans. The soil around the aperture is cleared and flattened to receive the wire-gauze, under which I place a Pompilus. This is the time to light a pipe and wait, lying on the pebbles...Yet another disappointment. Half an hour goes by; and the Wasp confines herself to travelling round and round the netting as she did in my study. She gives no sign of greed when confronted with the burrow, though Ican see the Tarantula's diamond eyes glittering at the bottom.
The trellised wall is replaced by the glass wall, which, since it does not allow her to scale its heights, will oblige the Wasp to remain on the ground and at last to take cognizance of the shaft, which she seems to ignore. This time we have done the trick!
After a few circuits of her cage, the Calicurgus notices the pit yawning at her feet. She goes down it. This daring confounds me. I should never have ventured to anticipate as much. That she should suddenly fling herself upon the Tarantula when the latter is outside her stronghold, well and good; but to rush into the lair, when the terrible monster is waiting for you below with those two poisoned daggers of hers! What will come of such temerity? Abuzzing of wings ascends from the depths. Run to earth in her private apartments, the Lycosa is no doubt at grips with the intruder. That hum of wings is the Calicurgus' paean of triumph, until it be her death-song. The slayer may well be the slain. Which of the two will come up alive?
It is the Lycosa, who hurriedly scampers out and posts herself just over the orifice of the burrow, in her posture of defence, her fangs open, her four front legs uplifted. Can the other have been stabbed? Not at all, for she emerges in her turn, not without receiving on the way a cuff from the Spider, who immediately regains her lair. Dislodged from her basement a second and yet a third time, the Tarantula always comes up unwounded; she always awaits her adversary on her threshold, administers punishment and reenters her dwelling. In vain do I try my two Pompili alternately and change the burrow; I do not succeed in observing anything else. Certain conditions not realized by my stratagems are lacking to complete the tragedy.
Discouraged by the repetition of my futile attempts, I throw up the game, the richer however by one fact of some value: the Calicurgus, without the least fear, descends into the Tarantula's den and dislodges her. I imagine that things happen in the same fashion outside my cages. When expelled from her dwelling, the Spider is more timid and more vulnerable to attack.
Moreover, while hampered by a narrow shaft, the operator would not wield her lancet with the precision called for by her designs. The bold irruption shows us once again, more plainly than the tussles on my table, the Lycosa's reluctance to sink her fangs into her enemy's body. When the two are face to face at the bottom of the lair, then or never is the moment to have it out with the foe. The Tarantula is in her own house, with all its conveniences; every nook and corner of the bastion is familiar to her. The intruder's movements are hampered by her ignorance of the premises. Quick, my poor Lycosa, quick, a bite; and it's all up with your persecutor! But you refrain, I know not why, and your reluctance is the saving of the rash invader. The silly Sheep does not reply to the butcher's knife by charging with lowered horns. Can it be that you are the Pompilus' Sheep?
My two subjects are reinstalled in my study under their wire-gauze covers, with bed of sand, reed-stump burrow and fresh honey, complete. Here they find again their first Lycosae, fed upon Locusts. Cohabitation continues for three weeks without other incidents than scuffles and threats which become less frequent day by day. No serious hostility is displayed on either side. At last the Calicurgi die: their day is over. A pitiful end after such an enthusiastic beginning.
Shall I abandon the problem? Why, not a bit of it! I have encountered greater difficulties, but they have never deterred me from a warmly-cherished project. Fortune favours the persevering. She proves as much by offering me, in September, a fortnight after the death of my Tarantula-huntresses, another Calicurgus, captured for the first time. This is the Harlequin Calicurgus (C. scurra, LEP.), who sports the same gaudy costume as the first and is almost of the same size.
Now what does this newcomer, of whom I know nothing, want? A Spider, that is certain; but which? A huntress like this will need a corpulent quarry:
perhaps the Silky Epeira (E. serica), perhaps the Banded Epeira (E.
