id="citation8"/>{8} she herself feeds on the prey which she catches.  She is not a ‘paralyzer,’ {9} who cleverly spares her quarry so as to leave it a glimmer of life and keep it fresh for weeks at a time; she is a killer, who makes a meal off her capture on the spot.  With her, there is no methodical vivisection, which destroys movement without entirely destroying life, but absolute death, as sudden as possible, which protects the assailant from the counter-attacks of the assailed.

Her game, moreover, is essentially bulky and not always of the most peaceful character.  This Diana, ambushed in her tower, needs a prey worthy of her prowess.  The big Grasshopper, with the powerful jaws; the irascible Wasp; the Bee, the Bumble-bee and other wearers of poisoned daggers must fall into the ambuscade from time to time.  The duel is nearly equal in point of weapons.  To the venomous fangs of the Lycosa the Wasp opposes her venomous stiletto.  Which of the two bandits shall have the best of it?  The struggle is a hand-to-hand one.  The Tarantula has no secondary means of defence, no cord to bind her victim, no trap to subdue her.  When the Epeira, or Garden Spider, sees an insect entangled in her great upright web, she hastens up and covers the captive with corded meshes and silk ribbons by the armful, making all resistance impossible.  When the prey is solidly bound, a prick is carefully administered with the poison-fangs; then the Spider retires, waiting for the death-throes to calm down, after which the huntress comes back to the game.  In these conditions, there is no serious danger.

In the case of the Lycosa, the job is riskier.  She has naught to serve her but her courage and her fangs and is obliged to leap upon the formidable prey, to master it by her dexterity, to annihilate it, in a measure, by her swift-slaying talent.

Annihilate is the word: the Bumble-bees whom I draw from the fatal hole are a sufficient proof.  As soon as that shrill buzzing, which I called the death-song, ceases, in vain I hasten to insert my forceps: I always bring out the insect dead, with slack proboscis and limp legs.  Scarce a few quivers of those legs tell me that it is a quite recent corpse.  The Bumble-bee’s death is instantaneous.  Each time that I take a fresh victim from the terrible slaughter-house, my surprise is renewed at the sight of its sudden immobility.

Nevertheless, both animals have very nearly the same strength; for I choose my Bumble-bees from among the largest (Bombus hortorum and B. terrestris).  Their weapons are almost equal: the Bee’s dart can bear comparison with the Spider’s fangs; the sting of the first seems to me as formidable as the bite of the second.  How comes it that the Tarantula always has the upper hand and this moreover in a very short conflict, whence she emerges unscathed?  There must certainly be some cunning strategy on her part.  Subtle though her poison may be, I cannot believe that its mere injection, at any point whatever of the victim, is enough to produce so prompt a catastrophe.  The ill-famed rattlesnake does not kill so quickly, takes hours to achieve that for which the Tarantula does not require a second.  We must, therefore, look for an explanation of this sudden death to the vital importance of the point attacked by the Spider, rather than to the virulence of the poison.

What is this point?  It is impossible to recognize it on the Bumble-bees.  They enter the burrow; and the murder is committed far from sight.  Nor does the lens discover any wound upon the corpse, so delicate are the weapons that produce it.  One would have to see the two adversaries engage in a direct contest.  I have often tried to place a Tarantula and a Bumble-bee face to face in the same bottle.  The two animals mutually flee each other, each being as much upset as the other at its captivity.  I have kept them together for twenty-four hours, without aggressive display on either side.  Thinking more of their prison than of attacking each other, they temporize, as though indifferent.  The experiment has always been fruitless.  I have succeeded with Bees and Wasps, but the murder has been committed at night and has taught me nothing.  I would find both insects, next morning, reduced to a jelly under the Spider’s mandibles.  A weak prey is a mouthful which the Spider reserves for the calm of the night.  A prey capable of resistance is not attacked in captivity.  The prisoner’s anxiety cools the hunter’s ardour.

The arena of a large bottle enables each athlete to keep out of the other’s way, respected by her adversary, who is respected in her turn.  Let us reduce the lists, diminish the enclosure.  I put Bumble-bee and Tarantula into a test-tube that has only room for one at the bottom.  A lively brawl ensues, without serious results.  If the Bumble-bee be underneath, she lies down on her back and with her legs wards off the other as much as she can.  I do not see her draw her sting.  The Spider, meanwhile, embracing the whole circumference of the enclosure with her long legs, hoists herself a little upon the slippery surface and removes herself as far as possible from her adversary.  There, motionless, she awaits events, which are soon disturbed by the fussy Bumble-bee.  Should the latter occupy the upper position, the Tarantula protects herself by drawing up her legs, which keep the enemy at a distance.  In short, save for sharp scuffles when the two champions are in touch, nothing happens that deserves attention.  There is no duel to the death in the narrow arena of the test-tube, any more than in the wider lists afforded by the bottle.  Utterly timid once she is away from home, the Spider obstinately refuses the battle; nor will the Bumble-bee, giddy though she be, think of striking the first blow.  I abandon experiments in my study.

We must go direct to the spot and force the duel upon the Tarantula, who is full of pluck in her own stronghold.  Only, instead of the Bumble-bee, who enters the burrow and conceals her death from our eyes, it is necessary to substitute another adversary, less inclined to penetrate underground.  There abounds in the garden, at this moment, on the flowers of the common clary, one of the largest and most powerful Bees that haunt my district, the Carpenter-bee (Xylocopa violacea), clad in black velvet, with wings of purple gauze.  Her size, which is nearly an inch, exceeds that of the Bumble-bee.  Her sting is excruciating and produces a swelling that long continues painful.  I have very exact memories on this subject, memories that have cost me dear.  Here indeed is an antagonist worthy of the Tarantula, if I succeed in inducing the Spider to accept her.  I place a certain number, one by one, in bottles small in capacity, but having a wide neck capable of surrounding the entrance to the burrow.

As the prey which I am about to offer is capable of overawing the huntress, I select from among the Tarantulae the lustiest, the boldest, those most stimulated by hunger.  The spikeleted stalk is pushed into the burrow.  When the Spider hastens up at once, when she is of a good size, when she climbs boldly to the aperture of her dwelling, she is admitted to the tourney; otherwise, she is refused.  The bottle, baited with a Carpenter-bee, is placed upside down over the door of one of the elect.  The Bee buzzes gravely in her glass bell; the huntress mounts from the recesses of the cave; she is on the threshold, but inside; she looks; she waits.  I also wait.  The quarters, the half-hours pass: nothing.  The Spider goes down again: she has probably judged the attempt too dangerous.  I move to a second, a third, a fourth burrow: still nothing; the huntress