We must note, too, the singular phenomenon that the urbanity and bountifulness of Nature appeared to these lovers of beauty a thing of course. Nature is loved for herself only in countries where she plays the step-dame. Lombards, Frenchmen, Englishmen, on leaving the smoky scenes of their daily toil, did not shrink from a life in the depths of a dull place in the country, or from intercourse with the rustics; they might be seen any day chatting and whiling away an idle hour with the farmers on the village green. At Paris people were passionately fond of natural flowers, the annual consumption of which was valued by statisticians at fifteen thousand golden crowns; even the University preferred them to paper garlands.[213] The people of the south, on the contrary, spoilt children of a soil which yields fruit of itself, trampled roses and violets beneath their feet with never a thought of gathering them. The Italian painters used to adorn manuscripts with elaborate golden scrolls; the ladies framed their faces in gold and pearls, and valued flowers only for the delicate softness of their perfume; many of them strewed lilies and roses and violets about their bowers, as the quintessence of sweetness. But everyone abhorred a country life. Castiglione has only one word for the existence of gentlemen-farmers: “It is indecent.” As for Margaret of France, she could find no stronger abuse, no more expressive appellation for a froward heart than: “O rough heart, rural and bucolic.” Nor would one expect to find a liking for animals among the platonists. Ladies valued only the boudoir pet, the little affectionate, obedient animal, their very own, which meekly took their kisses and upon which they lavished without misgiving a portion of their tenderness: a bird for instance, or a pug. I say _a_ pug, for there was seldom more than one. What was the good of a troop of shaggy animals however graceful, like those which fill the canvases of Veronese? A lady much preferred her one little lapdog, which she carried on her arm against her heart, took to bed with her, and had painted in her own portrait. “Love me, love my dog.” Titian’s Venus of the Prado is nude, but she keeps the indispensable ornaments—a pearl necklace, a musical instrument, and a little dog. Margaret in writing to M. de Montmorency[214] tells him gaily that she is looking after her niece’s “belongings,” that is, “her parrot and her daughters.” The death of the darling bird or the little pug was a cruel event. What tears were shed! So faithful a little dog! How many men might have learned a lesson from him! Friends could hardly venture to speak of the fleas of the demised, or the hair that he dropped all around, or the other objects which his mistress might perhaps find for her affection.