Note 3 — Chapter V · THE SPANISH COPRIS

There is no mistaking what has happened: the mother has collected and kneaded into one lump the numerous fragments brought down one after the other; out of all those particles she has made a homogeneous piece, by dint of mashing them, amalgamating them, stamping on them. I repeatedly surprise the baker on the top of the colossal loaf beside which the Sacred Beetle’s pill cuts so poor a figure: she goes strolling about on the convex surface, which sometimes measures a decimetre3 across; she pats the mass, consolidates it, levels it. I can give but a glance at the curious scene. As soon as she is perceived, the pastry-cook slides down the curved slope and huddles out of sight beneath the pie.