Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively in the corners; the ladybird, the death’s-head plant-louse, the daddy-long-legs, “the devil,” a black insect, which menaces by twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his fabulous monster, which has scales under its belly, but is not a lizard, which has pustules on its back, but is not a toad, which inhabits the nooks of old limekilns and wells that have run dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, which crawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which has a look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it; he calls this monster “the deaf thing.” The search for these “deaf things” among the stones is a joy of formidable nature. Another pleasure consists in suddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking a look at the woodlice. Each region of Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which are to be found there. There are earwigs in the timber-yards of the Ursulines, there are millipedes in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars.