Should the grub forget this little formality, should it lie down to its nymphal sleep with its head at the back of the cell, the Capricorn is infallibly lost: his cradle becomes a hopeless dungeon.
But there is no fear of this danger: the knowledge of our bit of an intestine is too sound in things of the future for the grub to neglect the formality of keeping its head to the door.

At the end of spring, the Capricorn, now in possession of his full strength, dreams of the joys of the sun, of the festivals of light.

He wants to get out.

What does he find before him?
A heap of filings easily dispersed with his claws; next, a stone lid which he need not even break into fragments: it comes undone in one piece; it is removed from its frame with a few pushes of the forehead, a few tugs of the claws.

In fact, I find the lid intact on the threshold of the abandoned cells.