For us, who dig, weed, and water, bent with fatigue and burned by the sun, she swells the pods of the pea; she swells them also for the weevil, which does no gardener’s work, yet takes its share of the harvest at its own hour, when the earth is joyful with the new life of spring.

Let us follow the manoeuvres of this insect which takes its tithe of the green pea.  I, a benevolent rate-payer, will allow it to take its dues; it is precisely to benefit it that I have sown a few rows of the beloved plant in a corner of my garden.  Without other invitation on my part than this modest expenditure of seed-peas, it arrives punctually during the month of May.  It has learned that this stony soil, rebellious at the culture of the kitchen-gardener, is bearing peas for the first time.  In all haste therefore it has hurried, an agent of the entomological revenue system, to demand its dues.

Whence does it come?  It is impossible to say precisely.  It has come from some shelter, somewhere, in which it has passed the winter in a state of torpor.  The plane-tree, which sheds its rind during the heats of the summer, furnishes an excellent refuge for homeless insects under its partly detached sheets of bark.

I have often found our weevil in such a winter refuge.  Sheltered under the dead covering of the plane, or otherwise protected while the winter lasts, it awakens from its torpor at the first touch of a kindly sun.  The almanac of the instincts has aroused it; it knows as well as the gardener when the pea-vines are in flower, and seeks its favorite plant, journeying thither from every side, running with quick, short steps, or nimbly flying.

A small head, a fine snout, a costume of ashen grey sprinkled with brown, flattened wing-covers, a dumpy, compact body, with two large black dots on the rear segment—­such is the summary portrait of my visitor.  The middle of May approaches, and with it the van of the invasion.

They settle on the flowers, which are not unlike white-winged butterflies.  I see them at the base of the blossom or inside the cavity of the “keel” of the flower, but the majority explore the petals and take possession of them.  The time for laying the eggs has not yet arrived.  The morning is mild; the sun is warm without being oppressive.  It is the moment of nuptial flights; the time of rejoicing in the splendor of the sunshine.  Everywhere are creatures rejoicing to be alive.  Couples come together, part, and re-form.  When towards noon the heat becomes too great, the weevils retire into the shadow, taking refuge singly in the folds of the flowers whose secret corners they know so well.  To-morrow will be another day of festival, and the next day also, until the pods, emerging from the shelter of the “keel” of the flower, are plainly visible, enlarging from day to day.

A few gravid females, more pressed for time than the others, confide their eggs to the growing pod, flat and meager as it issues from its floral sheath.  These hastily laid batches of eggs, expelled perhaps by the exigencies of an ovary incapable of further delay, seem to me in serious danger; for the seed in which the grub must establish itself is as yet no more than a tender speck of green, without firmness and without any farinaceous tissue.  No larva could possibly find sufficient nourishment there, unless it waited for the pea to mature.