There is the adult insect, freed of its mask, and how different from
what it was but how! The wings are heavy, moist, transparent, with
nervures of a tender green. The thorax is barely clouded with brown. All
the rest of the body is a pale green, whitish in places. Heat and a
prolonged air-bath are necessary to harden and colour the fragile
creature. Some two hours pass without any perceptible change. Hanging to
its deserted shell by the two fore limbs, the Cigale sways to the least
breath of air, still feeble and still green. Finally, the brown colour
appears and rapidly covers the whole body; the change of colour is
completed in half an hour. Fastening upon its chosen twig at nine
o'clock in the morning, the Cigale flies away under my eyes at half-past
twelve.

The empty shell remains, intact except for the fissure in the back;
clasping the twig so firmly that the winds of autumn do not always
succeed in detaching it. For some months yet and even during the winter
you will often find these forsaken skins hanging from the twigs in the
precise attitude assumed by the larva at the moment of metamorphosis.
They are of a horny texture, not unlike dry parchment, and do not
readily decay.

I could gather some wonderful information regarding the Cigale were I to
listen to all that my neighbours, the peasants, tell me. I will give one
instance of rustic natural history.

[Illustration: THE CIGALE AND THE EMPTY PUPA-SKIN.]

Are you afflicted with any kidney trouble, or are you swollen with
dropsy, or have you need of some powerful diuretic? The village