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.