"'Mme. de Noriolis!'

"'M. de La Roche-Targé!'

"A little while ago George spoke to us of his aunt, and mentioned how
she had married him quite young, at one stroke, without giving him time
to reflect or breathe. I, too, have an aunt, and between us for a number
of years there has been a perpetual battle. 'Marry.' 'I don't want to
marry.' 'Do you want young girls? There is Mademoiselle A, Mademoiselle
B, Mademoiselle C.' 'I don't want to marry.' 'Do you want widows? There
is Madame D, Madame E, Madame F.' 'I don't want to marry.'

"Mme. de Noriolis figured always in the first rank in the series of
widows, and I noticed that my aunt put stress, with evident favoritism,
on all the good points and advantages that I should find in that
marriage. She didn't have to tell me that Mme. de Noriolis was very
pretty--any one could see that; or that she was very rich--I knew it
already. But she explained to me that M. de Noriolis was an idiot, who
had had the merit of making his wife perfectly miserable, and that thus
it would be very easy for the second husband to make himself very much
loved.

"Then, when she had discoursed at length on the virtues, graces, and
merits of Mme. de Noriolis, my aunt, who is clever and knows my
weakness, pulled out of her desk a topographical map, and spread it out
with care on the table.

"It was the map of the district of Chatellerault, a very correct and
minute map, that my aunt had gone herself to the military station to