The region called _piedimonta_, which surrounds the base of Ætna, and of which Catania forms the portion nearest the level of the sea, is, according to the declared opinions of all travellers, the loveliest country in the whole world. It is that fact which impels me to place there the scene of a story which was recently told me, but of which I was forbidden to reveal the real _locus_ or the real characters. Therefore, dear reader, pray take the trouble to transport yourself in imagination to the district called Valdemona, or _Valley of the Demons_. It is a beautiful spot, which, however, I do not propose to describe in great detail, for a sufficiently good reason: namely, that I am not familiar with it, and one cannot depict very faithfully what one knows only by hearsay. But there are so many excellent books of travel that you can consult! unless, indeed, you prefer to go thither in person, which I would that I, too, might do, to-morrow, provided that it was not with you, reader; for, in presence of the marvellous beauties of that spot, you would rebuke me for having described it so ill, and there is nothing more disagreeable than a travelling companion who is constantly preaching at you. In default of something better, my fancy is impelled to lead you rather far away, beyond the mountains, and to leave in peace for a time the quiet country districts wherein I usually like to frame my tales. The moving cause of this fancy is exceedingly puerile, but I propose to tell it to you. I do not know whether you remember, assuming that you do me the honor to read me, that I placed before you last year a novel entitled _The Sin of Monsieur Antoine_, the scene of which was laid on the banks of the Creuse, and especially among the ruins of the ancient château of Châteaubrun. Now that château exists, and I drive thither at least once in every year, although it is about ten leagues from my own home. This year I was very coldly received by the old peasant woman who has charge of the ruins. "Look you!" she cried, in her half-Berrichon, half-Marchois patois, "I don't think much of you; my name is not _Janille_, but _Jennie_. I haven't got any daughter, and I don't lead my master round by the nose. My master don't wear a blouse; you lied about him. I never saw him in a blouse, etc., etc. I don't know how to read, but I do know that you've been writing lies about my master and me. I have no liking for you now." 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.