This harangue apprized me that there still lives, not far from the ruins of Châteaubrun, an old man named Châteaubrun, who never wears a blouse. That is all that I know about him.
But it proved to me that I must needs be most circumspect when writing of La Marche and Berry. That was at least the tenth time that something of that sort had happened to me, and every time persons bearing the name of some of my characters, or living in the localities I have described, have flown into a passion with me and accused me of slandering them, not deigning to believe that I took their names by chance, and that I did not know of their existence.
To give them time to become calm again, before I return to that region, I propose to make an excursion to Sicily. But how shall I avoid making use of a name that belongs to some inhabitant or some portion of that celebrated island? A Sicilian hero cannot be called Durand or Wolf, nor do I find on the map of the country any name which rhymes with Pontoise or Baden-Baden. I really must baptize my actors and my stage with names that have some rhyme in a, o or i. I will take those which are easiest to pronounce, so far as is possible, without much heed to geographical accuracy, declaring beforehand that I do not know a cat in Sicily, even by reputation; so that I cannot possibly intend to point at any particular person.
Having made this statement, I am free to choose, and the choice of names is the most embarrassing question that confronts a novelist who wishes to become sincerely attached to the characters he creates. In the first place, I need a princess who has a resounding name, one of those which give you an exalted idea of the person who bears it; and there are such lovely names in that country! Acalia, Madonia, Valcorrente, Valverde, Primosole, Tremisteri, etc.—they all ring true on the ear, like perfect chords. But if perchance there has ever happened in any of the patrician families which bear the names of those seignorial localities, an adventure like that which I am about to describe—a delicate adventure, I confess—why, I am sure to be accused once more of evil-speaking or calumny. Luckily, Catania is very far away; my novels do not, in all probability, pass the lighthouse of Messina, and I trust that the new pope will do in charity what his predecessor did without knowing why: that is to say, keep me in the Index; then I shall be entirely at liberty to speak of Italy, certain that Italy, and with still stronger reason Sicily, will never suspect it.
Consequently my princess shall be called the Princess of Palmarosa. I defy you to find sweeter sounds or a more flowery meaning in any name in any novel. And now for her Christian name, we must think of that. We will call her Agatha, because St. Agatha is the revered patron saint of Catania. But I will urge the reader to pronounce the name Agata, even if I should happen inadvertently to write it in French, otherwise he will miss the local coloring.
My hero's name shall be Michelangelo Lavoratori, but we must never confound him with the illustrious Michelangelo Buonarotti, who died at least two hundred years before my man's birth.
As for the period in which the events are supposed to take place—another unpleasant incident of the beginning of a novel—you are entirely at liberty to select it yourself, dear reader. But inasmuch as our characters will be actuated by ideas now in circulation in the world, and as it would be impossible for me to speak to you as I should like to do of the men of past ages, I fancy that the story of the Princess Agatha of Palmarosa and Michelangelo Lavoratori belongs somewhere between 1810 and 1840. Fix the precise year, day, and hour at which we begin our narrative to suit yourself; it is a matter of indifference to me, for my novel is neither historical nor descriptive, nor does it pride itself at all upon being exact in either respect.
On the day in question—it was in autumn and broad daylight, if you please—Michelangelo Lavoratori was descending diagonally across the gorges and ravines which alternate with each other from the slopes of Ætna to the fertile plain of Catania. He was coming from Rome; he had crossed the Strait of Messina, he had followed the highroad as far as Taormina. There, intoxicated by the grandeur of the spectacle which his eyes beheld in all directions, and uncertain whether to choose the seashore or the mountains, he had gone forward to some extent at random, torn between his impatience to embrace his father and sister, whom he had not seen for a year, and the temptation to go a little nearer the gigantic volcano, compared to which it seemed to him, as to Spallanzani, that Vesuvius is simply a parlor volcano.
As he was alone and on foot, he had lost his way more than once in that wild region, intersected by vast streams of lava which form on all sides steep mountains and valleys filled with luxuriant vegetation. One travels far and makes very little progress when he must constantly ascend and descend over a distance quadrupled in length by natural obstacles. Michel had taken two days to travel the ten leagues, more or less, which lie between Taormina and Catania as the crow flies; but at last he was drawing near his journey's end, indeed, he had arrived; for, after crossing the Cantaro and passing through Mascarello, Piano-Grande, Valverde, and Mascalucia, he had at last left Santa-Agata on his right and Ficarazzi on his left. Therefore he was only about a mile from the suburbs of the city; if he had walked a quarter of an hour more, he would have reached the end of the adventures of a pedestrian journey, during which, despite the fascination and the enthusiastic admiration which such natural scenery inspires in a young artist, he had suffered considerably from heat in the ravines, from cold on the mountain-tops, from hunger, and from fatigue.
But, as he skirted the wall of a vast park, on the slope of the last hill which he still had to cross, and as, with his eyes fixed on the city and the harbor, he quickened his pace to make up for lost time, he stumbled over the stump of an olive-tree. The pain caused by the blow was most acute; for, after two days' travelling over sharp slag, and pozzuolana as hot as red-hot ashes, his shoes were sadly worn and his feet cruelly bruised and sore.