Clearly it requires effort. Slowly, it seems, this male moth is pumping all that remains of his life into hers. All those days of eating, eating, eating - all for this. It goes on and on, day after night after day. A short rest and then he starts again: a fast beating of the wings, the tiniest shove. And she just sits there. Fatly immobile. Docilely smug. As soon as she emerges they are after her. A little eau de Bombxyol behind a middle segment and she could be anyone's.
Then, a day or so later, they will mysteriously detach. He might busy himself with a search for another, but shortly thereafter he will die. She, meanwhile, will excrete one glistening yellow drop of liquid - the remains of whatever toxins remain inside her - and then will start to lay her eggs. She places them delicately, her abdomen tip describing circles and lines, one egg and then another, beads the size of pin heads, a production line of seeds to harden, darken and eventually become another - just like her.