I rode the horse down to the Bois de Boulogne on the morning that the affair with Cambaceres was to come off, and Lanty held him as I went in, "sure to win," as they say in the ring.
Cambaceres was known to be the best shot in the French army; but I, who am a pretty good hand at a snipe, thought a man was bigger, and that I could wing him if I had a mind.

As soon as Ney gave the word, we both fired: I felt a whiz past my left ear, and putting up my hand there, found a large piece of my whiskers gone; whereas at the same moment, and shrieking a horrible malediction, my adversary reeled and fell.
"Mon Dieu, il est mort!" cried Ney.
"Pas de tout," said Beauharnais.

"Ecoute; il jure toujours." And such, indeed, was the fact: the supposed dead man lay on the ground cursing most frightfully.

We went up to him: he was blind with the loss of blood, and my ball had carried off the bridge of his nose.

He recovered; but he was always called the Prince of Ponterotto in the French army, afterwards.