mockingly, “You will be a general when we fight with pens.” Stung to the quick, Brune applied for a commission, was sent into the army with the rank of major, and in about a year, through Danton’s patronage, became a brigade-general; meanwhile poor Eglé, having wagged her pert tongue at Robespierre, lost her head in consequence. The marshal on whom ducal honors seemed to sit most queerly was François Lefèbvre, Duc de Dantzig. He was born in 1755, the son of a miller, and was a sergeant in the French guards at the time of the Revolution. He had then just married a _vivandière_. The anecdotes of Madame Lefèbvre’s incongruous sayings at the consular and imperial courts are so many as to remind one of the proverb, “We yield only to riches.” Everything that could be imagined in the way of a _lapsus linguæ_ or a bull was attributed to this good-natured Mrs. Malaprop, whose oddities amused Josephine, but not always Napoleon. Once Lefèbvre fell ill of ague, and his servant, an old soldier, caught the malady at the same time. The servant was quickly cured; but the fever clung to the marshal until it occurred to his energetic duchess that the doctor had blundered by giving to a marshal the same doses as to a private soldier. She rapidly counted on her fingers the different rungs of the military ladder. “Here, drink, this suits your rank,” she said, putting a full tumbler to her husband’s lips, and the duke having swallowed a dozen doses at one gulp, was soon on his legs again. “You have much to learn, my friend,” was the lady’s subsequent remark to the astonished doctor.