Science asks for a better explanation, but finds in the insect a world which is closed to us.  There is no possibility of foreseeing, or even of suggesting the impression produced by this clashing of cymbals upon those who inspire it.  The most I can say is that their impassive exterior seems to denote a complete indifference.  I do not insist that this is so; the intimate feelings of the insect are an insoluble mystery.

Another reason for doubt is this:  all creatures affected by song have acute hearing, and this sense of hearing, a vigilant sentinel, should give warning of danger at the slightest sound.  The birds have an exquisite delicacy of hearing.  If a leaf stirs among the branches, if two passers-by exchange a word, they are suddenly silent, anxious, and on their guard.  But the Cigale is far from sharing in such emotions.  It has excellent sight.  Its great faceted eyes inform it of all that happens to right and left; its three stemmata, like little ruby telescopes, explore the sky above its head.  If it sees us coming it is silent at once, and flies away.  But let us get behind the branch on which it is singing; let us manoeuvre so as to avoid the five centres of vision, and then let us speak, whistle, clap the hands, beat two stones together.  For far less a bird which could not see you would stop its song and fly away terrified.  The Cigale imperturbably continues to sing as if nothing had occurred.

Of my experiences of this kind I will mention only one, the most remarkable of many.

I borrowed the municipal artillery; that is, the iron boxes which are charged with gunpowder on the day of the patron saint.  The artilleryman was delighted to load them for the benefit of the Cigales, and to fire them off for me before my house.  There were two of these boxes stuffed full of powder as though for the most solemn rejoicing.  Never was politician making his electoral progress favoured with a bigger charge.  To prevent damage to my windows the sashes were all left open.  The two engines of detonation were placed at the foot of the plane-trees before my door, no precautions being taken to mask them.  The Cigales singing in the branches above could not see what was happening below.

There were six of us, spectators and auditors.  We waited for a moment of relative quiet.  The number of singers was counted by each of us, as well as the volume and rhythm of the song.  We stood ready, our ears attentive to the aerial orchestra.  The box exploded with a clap of thunder.

No disturbance ensued above.  The number of performers was the same, the rhythm the same, the volume the same.  The six witnesses were unanimous:  the loud explosion had not modified the song of the Cigales in the least.  The second box gave an identical result.

What are we to conclude from this persistence of the orchestra, its lack of surprise or alarm at the firing of a charge?  Shall we conclude that the Cigale is deaf?  I am not going to venture so far as that; but if any one bolder than myself were to make the assertion I really do not know what reasons I could invoke to disprove it.  I should at least be forced to admit that it is very hard of hearing, and that we may well apply to it the homely and familiar phrase:  to shout like a deaf man.