Here were country scenes, sheepfolds, pictures of ravishing gallantry, miniatures beyond price. "And even," observes M. Feuillet de Conches, "the heels of the shoes of dandies were decorated by Watteau or by Parrocel." The Valois doted, you know, on perfumed Gloves; this taste was fatal to Jeanne d'Albret, who found her death in trying a pair of Gloves dexterously prepared by some Italian quack, a friend of the sombre Catherine. Consider, my friend, that with my romantic instinct, and my temperament full of love for the drama, I might find here an easy transition, and tell you, in long excited phrases, of the exploits of the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, and the grim Gaudin de Sainte-Croix; show you these sinister poisoners preparing by night their infamous Glove stock; then in a tale fantastic as the /Olivier Brusson/ of Hoffmann, evoke the famous trial of the Marchioness, the torture, the various punishments, the burning chamber, up to the final stake. All this /à propos/ of the Glove--who can say if such simple history would not be worth more than all the cock-and-bull stories which I am about to tell you, by compulsion, concerning the Glove and the Mittens? In very truth, I would prefer, as your /vis-à-vis/, to show myself a romancist, not an historian, for I should be sure of being less of a bore, more personal, and, above all--shall I avow it?--not in any degree common-place. But, as Miguel de Cervantes said, "Our desires are extremely seditious servants." I will be then reactionary, and will close the door against these socialists of sentiment. All this fine rigmarole has made me think of presenting you with a letter of Antonio Perez to Lady Rich, sister of Lord Essex, who had asked him for some dogskin Gloves:-- "I have experienced," he writes, "so much affliction in not having by me the dogskin Gloves desired by your ladyship, that, waiting their arrival, I have resolved to flay a little skin on the most delicate part of my own body--if, indeed, any delicate part can be found upon my rude self. Love and devotion to a lady's service may surely make a man flay himself for her, and cut her a pair of Gloves out of his own skin. But how can I pride myself on this with your ladyship, when it is my custom to flay even my very soul for those I love? Could mine be seen as clearly as my body, it would appear full of tatters, the most lamentable sort of soul in the world;--the Gloves are of dog's skin, madam, and yet of my own, for I hold myself as a dog, and supplicate your ladyship to hold me in like regard, in requital of my faith and my passion in your service." What think you of this out-and-out gallant, of this "dying" passionate lover? Here it seems to me, /à propos/ of scented Gloves, we have a Castilian gentleman exceedingly well skilled in the delicate art of offering them to ladies.