He was of the First Empire Nobility, and he was weak enough, though a fierce, dauntless iron-nerved soldier, to be discontented with the great fact that his father had been a hero of the Army of Italy, and scarce inferior in genius to Massena, because impatient of the minor one that, before strapping on a knapsack to have his first taste of war under Custine, the Marshal had been but a postilion at a posting inn in the heart of the Nivernais.
"Ah, my brunette!" he answered with a rough laugh, "have you taken my popular Corporal for your lover?
You should give your old friends warning first, or he may chance to get an ugly spit on a saber." The Amie du Drapeau tossed off her sixth glass of champagne.

She felt for the first time in her life a flush of hot blood on her brown, clear cheek, well used as she was to such jests and such lovers as these.
"Ma foi!" she said coolly.

"He would be more likely to spit than be spitted if it came to a duel.

I should like to see him in a duel; there is not a prettier sight in the world when both men have science.

As for fighting for me! Morbleau! I will thank nobody to have the impudence to do it, unless I order them out.