Emma Bovary stands with hands on hips, pouts, "I object to this fictional name!"
Robert Greenfield, that is yours truly, whips open his pocket notebook, licks the tip of his pencil, asks reportorially, "What name would you prefer?"
Emma smiles, thrusts out a hip, puffs up her thick blonde hair with both hands, replies authoritatively, "Brigitte Bardot!"
And there you have it.