Surely he had loved Silencieux[1] more since he had found for her that beautiful name.
He held the beetle in his hand a long while, loving it.

Then he said to himself, with a smile in which was the delight of a success: "A vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns." The phrase delighted him.

He set the insect down on the path, tenderly.
He had done with it.

He had carved it in seven words.

The little model might now touch its delicate way among the ferns at peace.
"A vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns," he repeated as he walked on, and then the gathering gloom of the wood suggested an addition: "And some day I shall find in the wood that moth of which I have dreamed since childhood--the dark moth with the face of death between his wings." The chalet stood on a little clearing, in a little circle of pines.