#gabrielle augereau

[cadmusfly]

Tag Yourself: Unabridged Shitty Drawing Marshal of the Empire Edition

Yes All 26 Of Them + Bonus 2

drawn and compiled by yours truly, initial and probably inaccurate research assisted by Chet Jean-Paul Tee, additional research from Napoleon and his Marshals by A G MacDonnell, Swords Around A Throne by John R Elting and a bunch of other books and Wikipedia pages

captions under images

mike (Michel Ney)

- full of every emotion

- always has ur back

joe (Joachim Murat)

- it's called fashion sweetheart

- will not stop flirting

lens (Jean Lannes)

- bestie who will call u out on ur shit

- does not like their photo taken

bessie (Jean-Baptiste Bessieres)

- actually nice under the ice

- was born in the wrong generation

dave (Louis-Nicolas Davout)

- overachiever

- 20 year old boomer

salt (Jean-de-Dieu Soult)

- people think ur up to no good

- doesn’t cope with sudden changes 2 plans

andrew (Andre Massena)

- actually up to no good

- sleepy until special interest is activated

bertie (Louis-Alexandre Berthier)

- carries the group project

- voted most likely to make a stalker shrine

auggie (Pierre Augereau)

- shady past full of batshit stories

- will not stop swearing in the christian minecraft server

lefrank (François Joseph Lefebvre)

- dad friend

- in my day we walked to school uphill both ways

big mac (Étienne Macdonald)

- brutally honest

- won't let you borrow their charger even if they have 100%

gill (Guillaume Brune)

- love-hate relationship with group chats

- pretends not to care, checks social media every 2 minutes

ouchie (Nicholas Oudinot)

- needs to buy bandages in bulk

- a little aggro

pony (Józef Antoni Poniatowski)

- can't swim

- tries 2 hard to fit in, everyone secretly loves them anyway

grumpy (Emmanuel de Grouchy)

- can't find them when u need them

- complains about the music, never suggests alternatives

bernie (Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte)

- always talks about their other friendship group

- most successful, nobody knows how

monty (Auguste de Marmont)

- does not save u a seat

- causes drama and then lurks in the background

monch (Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey)

- last to leave the party

- dependable

morty (Édouard Mortier)

- everyone looks up 2 them literally and figuratively

- golden retriever friend

jordan (Jean-Baptiste Jourdan)

- volunteers other people for things

- has 20+ alarms but still oversleeps

kelly (François Christophe de Kellermann)

- old as balls but still got it

- waiting in the wings

gov (Laurent de Gouvion Saint-Cyr)

- infuriatingly modest about their art skills

- thinks too much before they speak

perry (Catherine-Dominique de Pérignon)

- low-key rich, only buys things on sale

- “let’s order pizza” solution to everything

sachet (Louis-Gabriel Suchet)

- dependable friend who always brings snacks

- lowkey keeps the group together

cereal (Jean-Mathieu-Philibert Sérurier)

- unnervingly methodical and precise about fun

- will delete your social media after u die

vic (Claude Victor-Perrin)

- loves spicy food but can’t handle it

- says they're fine, not actually fine

Bonus!

june (Jean Andoche Junot)

- chaotic disaster bisexual

- will kill a man 4 their bestie

the rock (Géraud Duroc)

- keeps a tidy house

- mom friend with snacks

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

Friends, enemies, comrades, Jacobins, Monarchist, Bonapartists, gather round. We have an important announcement:

The continent is beset with war. A tenacious general from Corsica has ignited conflict from Madrid to Moscow and made ancient dynasties tremble. Depending on your particular political leanings, this is either the triumph of a great man out of the chaos of The Terror, a betrayal of the values of the French Revolution, or the rule of the greatest upstart tyrant since Caesar.

But, our grand tournament is here to ask the most important question: Now that the flower of European nobility is arrayed on the battlefield in the sexiest uniforms that European history has yet produced (or indeed, may ever produce), who is the most fuckable?

The bracket is here: full bracket and just quadrant I

Want to nominate someone from the Western Hemisphere who was involved in the ever so sexy dismantling of the Spanish empire? (or the Portuguese or French American colonies as well) You can do it here

The People have created this list of nominees:

France:

Jean Lannes

Josephine de Beauharnais

Thérésa Tallien

Jean-Andoche Junot

Joseph Fouché

Charles Maurice de Talleyrand

Joachim Murat

Michel Ney

Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte (Charles XIV of Sweden)

Louis-Francois Lejeune

Pierre Jacques Étienne Cambrinne

Napoleon I

Marshal Louis-Gabriel Suchet

Jacques de Trobriand

Jean de dieu soult.

François-Étienne-Christophe Kellermann

17.Louis Davout

Pauline Bonaparte, Duchess of Guastalla

Eugène de Beauharnais

Jean-Baptiste Bessières

Antoine-Jean Gros

Jérôme Bonaparte

Andrea Masséna

Antoine Charles Louis de Lasalle

Germaine de Staël

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas

René de Traviere (The Purple Mask)

Claude Victor Perrin

Laurent de Gouvion Saint-Cyr

François Joseph Lefebvre

Major Andre Cotard (Hornblower Series)

Edouard Mortier

Hippolyte Charles

Nicolas Charles Oudinot

Emmanuel de Grouchy

Pierre-Charles Villeneuve

Géraud Duroc

Georges Pontmercy (Les Mis)

Auguste Frédéric Louis Viesse de Marmont

Juliette Récamier

Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey

Louis-Alexandre Berthier

Étienne Jacques-Joseph-Alexandre Macdonald

Jean-Mathieu-Philibert Sérurier

Catherine Dominique de Pérignon

Guillaume Marie-Anne Brune

Jean-Baptiste Jourdan

Charles-Pierre Augereau

Auguste François-Marie de Colbert-Chabanais

England:

Richard Sharpe (The Sharpe Series)

Tom Pullings (Master and Commander)

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington

Jonathan Strange (Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell)

Captain Jack Aubrey (Aubrey/Maturin books)

Horatio Hornblower (the Hornblower Books)

William Laurence (The Temeraire Series)

Henry Paget, 1st Marquess of Anglesey

Beau Brummell

Emma, Lady Hamilton

Benjamin Bathurst

Horatio Nelson

Admiral Edward Pellew

Sir Philip Bowes Vere Broke

Sidney Smith

Percy Smythe, 6th Viscount Strangford

George IV

Capt. Anthony Trumbull (The Pride and the Passion)

Barbara Childe (An Infamous Army)

Doctor Maturin (Aubrey/Maturin books)

William Pitt the Younger

Robert Stewart, 2nd Marquess of Londonderry (Lord Castlereagh)

George Canning

Scotland:

Thomas Cochrane

Colquhoun Grant

Ireland:

Arthur O'Connor

Thomas Russell

Robert Emmet

Austria:

Klemens von Metternich

Friedrich Bianchi, Duke of Casalanza

Franz I/II

Archduke Karl

Marie Louise

Franz Grillparzer

Wilhelmine von Biron

Poland:

Wincenty Krasiński

Józef Antoni Poniatowski

Józef Zajączek

Maria Walewska

Władysław Franciszek Jabłonowski

Adam Jerzy Czartoryski

Antoni Amilkar Kosiński

Zofia Czartoryska-Zamoyska

Stanislaw Kurcyusz

Russia:

Alexander I Pavlovich

Alexander Andreevich Durov

Prince Andrei (War and Peace)

Pyotr Bagration

Mikhail Miloradovich

Levin August von Bennigsen

Pavel Stroganov

Empress Elizabeth Alexeievna

Karl Wilhelm von Toll

Dmitri Kuruta

Alexander Alexeevich Tuchkov

Barclay de Tolly

Fyodor Grigorevich Gogel

Ekaterina Pavlovna Bagration

Ippolit Kuragin (War and Peace)

Prussia:

Louise von Mecklenburg-Strelitz

Gebard von Blücher

Carl von Clausewitz

Frederick William III

Gerhard von Scharnhorst

Louis Ferdinand of Prussia

Friederike of Mecklenburg-Strelitz

Alexander von Humboldt

Dorothea von Biron

The Netherlands:

Ida St Elme

Wiliam, Prince of Orange

The Papal States:

Pius VII

Portugal:

João Severiano Maciel da Costa

Spain:

Juan Martín Díez

José de Palafox

Inês Bilbatua (Goya's Ghosts)

Haiti:

Alexandre Pétion

Sardinia:

Vittorio Emanuele I

Lombardy:

Alessandro Manzoni

Denmark:

Frederik VI

Sweden:

Gustav IV Adolph

[armagnac-army]

Fuck, marry, guillotine

Louise Soult

Gabrielle Grach (Madame Augereau)

Désirée Clary

FUCK MADAME AUGEREAU MARRY LOUISE SOULT KILL

Soult: Did you have to answer this question.

THIS IS TAME FOR BARRACKS TALK!!

[histoireettralala]

"The Good Marshal"

Augereau's lines had fallen into pleasant places. He was wealthy, comfortably established, happily married, honored among men. Napoleon had made him a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor, and would ennoble him in 1808 as Duke of Castiglione. The only shadow was Gabrielle's worsening health.

Good fortune noticeably mellowed Augereau. He loaned Marshal Bernadotte 200000 francs without interest as casually as Sergeant Augereau might have stood Sergeant "Pretty-Legs" Bernadotte a drink before the Revolution - "When a Marshal is fortunate enough to oblige a comrade, the pleasure of doing him a service is enough." There was no more looting. Marbot, Augereau's aide-de-camp during 1803-1807, wrote with obvious sincerity: "Of the five marshals under whom I served, [Augereau] was without a doubt the one who most alleviated the evils of war, who was the most considerate of civilians and treated his officers the best, living among them like a father in the midst of his children." To him, Augereau was the "good marshal".

John R. Elting, in David Chandler's Napoleon's Marshals

[maggiec70]

Prince Bagration Makes a Cameo Appearance

Another excerpt from the longest-running histfic draft. This is for Tairin. I hope I did her prince justice, small though it may be.

Jean’s staff found a two-story house large enough for them all in a northern Viennese suburb. General Compans ordered the portly, red-faced owner and his large family to leave, slipping him a fistful of gold coins before he could protest. Mariana couldn’t tell how many coins constituted a fistful, but they produced an incredulous expression on the man’s face and then a deep bow that revealed his blindingly bald, pink pate. There must be a secret source of gold coins that only Compans and Thomières knew about, perhaps hidden away in a sturdy oak box labeled Bribes. She had seen these coins appear whenever Jean wanted to sleep somewhere other than a barn or outside on the ground for several days. She also knew only a very few marshals and generals bothered to compensate the people whose lives they disrupted or even thought to do so.

“Don’t wreck the place,” Compans ordered them after the Viennese family had bustled out the door, their personal belongings tied up in large, unwieldy bundles.

“Why would we?” she asked Joseph as two adjutants added more wood to a fire in the large stone hearth. She wondered how much food she might find in the kitchen cupboards and the spacious pantry leading from the kitchen. Indeed, the life expectancy of the well-fed hens she’d seen in the dooryard was measured in minutes.

“It was a pro forma reminder,” Joseph replied. “We’ve never been a horde of Vandals or Huns, and the marshal knows it.” He grinned at her and stretched so much that he almost slid out of his chair. “I can’t say the same about Prince Murat’s cavalry or anyone in Marshal Augereau’s VII Corps. Now there’s a collection of seasoned plunderers—as bad as one of the plagues of Egypt, but not, I think, as dedicated to looting as Marshal Masséna.”

Later that evening, with a cold November wind safely outside and warmth and food inside, she sipped her second cup of rich coffee laced with cream from the black and white cow standing up to her knees in hay in the barn. “After ages in Purgatory, I’ve been given my reward.”

“Savor your taste of Paradise, Gabriel, while you can. We’re leaving in a couple of days,” Jacques said, unhooking his cloak and shaking sleet from it.

“Why? The Austrians surrendered at Ulm almost four weeks ago, and we’re north of Vienna with no Austrians anywhere that I can see. There isn’t anyone to fight.”

Jacques poured coffee from a porcelain pot and backed up to the fire. “Don’t you read the dispatches, Gabriel?”

“Not often—they’re boring.”

“Well, you should. We hadn’t seen the Austrian army because it left Vienna right before we arrived. Now they’ve gone further north, with General Kutuzov’s Russians.”

“Who’s Kutuzov?” she asked, trying not to yawn in his face. She really should pay more attention to the dispatches and reports. If Jean ever asked her about the campaign's minutia, she had better know enough to answer. She’d seen what happened when an officer couldn’t tell Jean what he wanted to know and didn’t want to subject herself to the humiliation of a profanity-laced public rebuke.

“Some clever Russian general, older than God. He’s heading for Moravia, though, not Mother Russia.”

Mariana remembered Jacques’s words three days later. Ejected from the warm stone house before dawn, she bundled up in her heavy cloak and gloves and rode out of Vienna with the rest of V Corps. Now, close to midnight, she didn’t think Moravia was anywhere close or warmer than Russia. It was full dark when they rode into a tiny hamlet so small they would have missed it if the scouts and leading edges of Oudinot’s grenadiers hadn’t literally stumbled over it. Snow topped with a thin layer of rime covered the cottage roofs, garden walls, the rough pathway serving as a street, and stubble in the surrounding fields. The inhabitants had shuttered every window, but thin cracks of pale yellow light escaped from some of them.

“They’re more afraid of the Russians than they are of us,” Jean said in response to her question. Each word came out on a small puff of white, as her own had done. Soon it might be too cold to talk. “If you looked in those barns, you’d find nothing but old straw. There’s nothing of value in the cottages, either. If the villagers had enough warning, they would have hidden everything, and if not, the Russians have it all now.”

Mariana had never seen a hamlet this small before or so eerily deserted. The barrenness she saw in the faint snow light and that Jean had described made her shiver. This time the cold struck deep in her bones.

“We’ll be sleeping outside, gentlemen, on the other side of Hollabrünn and eating whatever we have with us. It will be a short night anyway—the enemy’s less than six miles ahead.” Jean spurred his horse forward over the little village track, and the rest followed, riding close enough to brush each other’s stirrups. Mariana wrapped the reins around one wrist and massaged her hands and fingers inside her gloves, afraid to take them off. The idea of trying to sleep on the frozen, iron-hard ground was dreadful. If the Russians were so close, and if Jean meant to attack them in the morning, she might as well sit up all night. If she didn’t freeze before dawn, then a brisk encounter with the enemy, even hand to hand, would warm her up nicely. “Aunt Lucrezia, you would be appalled,” she whispered through stiff lips cracked and bleeding from the cold.

Despite her plan to sit up all night, Mariana had just fallen asleep, curled into a tight ball, knees drawn up nearly beneath her chin, when Joseph shook her into befuddled wakefulness. “Get up, Gabriel,” he said, peeling her cloak away. We’re leaving now.”

She staggered to her feet, grabbed her cloak back from Joseph, and buttoned it up tight. “No breakfast?”

“No time for any. There’s a small Russian rear-guard ahead. We have to eliminate it before it reaches Kutuzov.”

Mariana didn’t mind not eating as much as she minded not having something hot to drink. However, the worst prospect was having to do the necessary at the edge of the forest to her left. She still thought it was manifestly unfair that lately, she nearly froze whenever she pissed, while her comrades did not. An inequality, however, that she was powerless to alter one whit.

Having concluded her business in the forest, she hurried to untie Odysseus from the picket line, tighten his girth, and climb into the saddle. She trotted off to join the aides, who waited in a nearly silent group, close together, their horses impatiently stamping the hard ground. Without a word, they swung around and fell in behind Jean and General Compans. She wanted to know how far away the Russian rear-guard was and how many Russians comprised a rear-guard, but she couldn’t make her lips move.

General Thomières saved her the trouble. “Excellency, how many troops does Bagration have ahead of us?”

While she wondered who Bagration was, Jean slowed his horse to respond to his senior aide. “Fewer than I have, even though I’m short two divisions and even shorter of supplies. Neither the weather nor the ground is good for much but a short skirmish.”

The air was so silent and frigid that Mariana heard the intonation beneath his words that often meant more than the words themselves. He sounded confident rather than cocky or foolhardy. A short skirmish, he’d said, and that was fine with her.

The encounter between Bagration’s rear-guard and V Corps’ grenadiers, reinforced at the last possible moment by a squadron of Murat’s heavy cavalry, was not a skirmish. Mariana thought it was more like a brawl in some wayside tavern, loud, fast, and disorganized. It ended before she’d had a chance to do anything and because Bagration told Prince Murat that he had just learned about a truce. The prince believed him, dismounted, told Jean to order his troops to cease fire, and went inside a slightly shell-shocked villa that had been some Moravian aristocrat’s summer home.

“A truce? What the fuck is he talking about? I had the damn Russians on their arses, and he rides in and orders me to stop!” Jean was livid, his expression as hard as granite. Mariana worried what he might do when he jumped from his horse, leaving the reins to trail in the snow, and stomped after Murat. Acting on instinct, aides, chief of staff, and a few senior adjutants closed around him like a protective wall and entered the villa together.

Intended for soft summer breezes, the villa struggled to combat the mid-November cold. Fires burned in hearths at either end of the reception chamber’s black and white tiled floor. Clear glass bottles filled with colorless liquid stood among scores of crystal glasses on heavily carved tables in the center of the room. Someone had shoved chairs and settees against the walls. Officers in uniforms Mariana had never seen before crowded around the tables, opening bottles, pouring liquid into glasses, and handing them around. She watched Prince Murat take a sip, then drain it and hold it out for someone to fill. She watched Jean barrel forward, his expression still thunderous, until a tall officer with the face of a young eagle and enough medals on his chest to blind half a dozen men stepped forward and intercepted him. Together they moved away from Murat and his entourage and stood by one of the double windows, heads bent close together, talking. Another officer approached them, two glasses on a silver tray, and quickly left when they took the glasses and continued their conversation. When Major Guéhéneuc tried to insinuate himself into the conversation, Jean turned on him like an enraged wasp. The major scuttled away, staring at the floor, his face scarlet. Mariana rocked back on her boot heels, a smirk spreading across her face.

As voices rose around her, followed by the rank odor of damp wool and unwashed males, Mariana felt the beginnings of a headache. To take her mind off it, she asked Thomières, “What are they talking about? And who is that Russian?”

He laughed, a soft sound but not derisive. She was glad since she rarely spoke to him at length. “I haven’t the slightest idea what they’re talking about, but that’s Prince Pyotr Ivanovich Bagration the marshal’s talking to.” He laughed again, this time even softer as if he worried someone might overhear. “Talking now, fighting later. Fine looking general, though, don’t you think?”

“Indeed he is,” Mariana said. With his chiseled features and thick, dark hair, the tall, slender Russian looked a little like Jean. Big rooster and bantam rooster, she thought, and almost hooted with laughter. When she could trust herself to speak, she asked, “What’s in the bottles?”

“Vodka. Have you never tasted it?”

“I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Then allow me, lieutenant,” Thomières said and escorted her to the nearest table. Rummaging among the glasses, he found two relatively clean ones and filled them from one of the bottles. “Salut,” he said, threw back his head, and drank it down.

She sniffed at the clear liquid. It had no odor. Since Thomières was still standing, how dangerous could it be? She drank hers in a single gulp, and the alcohol burned all the way to her stomach, where it exploded. Tears flooded her eyes, she sneezed and then coughed. One cough led to several until Thomières pounded her on the back and filled her glass.

“Quick—drink this.”

She did and stopped coughing. This time the vodka felt smooth as silk, and she grinned at the senior aide. “You should have warned me.”

“And miss your reaction?” He filled her glass for the third time, but before she could drink it, four Russian officers joined them at the table, clutching their glasses filled to the brim and sloshing onto their dingy white gloves. Their faces were clean-shaven except for amazingly full side-whiskers, their cheeks brick red in the candlelight. Raising their glasses, they shouted in unison, “Za vashe zdorovye!” When they had downed every last drop, they tossed their glasses toward the fireplace. The sound of shattering crystal brought to a halt every conversation in the spacious room, and then other Russians began throwing their empty glasses to the floor.

“Why not?” Thomières said and threw his glass toward the hearth.

“Indeed!” Mariana replied and threw hers, too.

Whatever Jean and Bagration may have been discussing, or whatever Prince Murat may have believed about the alleged truce, or whatever the French and Russian officers thought about the prospect of imminent hostilities between them, everything disappeared beneath the sharp-edged sound of crystal shattering and the roars of toasts in French and Russian. Mariana linked arms with Thomières to keep from reeling and tried to get her tongue around the consonant-laden Russian words. Somehow, they sounded more satisfactory than light, polite French phrases and better suited to the vodka, of which she had become quite fond in no time at all.

Jean summoned aides and staff officers with a sharp whistle that penetrated the merriment and stalked out of the villa and into the icy, starlit night. The sudden cold jolted Mariana from her torpor, and the sharp air stung her eyes and nose. Her comrades showed similar symptoms of waking from a muddled sleep, and she wondered what might have happened had they stayed and emptied all those bottles.

[elisabeth515]

Pronunciation of the marshalate

Firstly, I am very sorry that I did not do double checks before reposting content again. So, after some thoughts, I decided to make a better version of our own.

//

Notes:

- All pronunciations of names are transcribed into English sounds (as much as possible)

- Since the [y] sound is absent in English, I decided to use the u-umlaut (ü) in German (and Mandarin Chinese pinyin) which was the closest to the “u” in French. The sound is the closest to “u” as in “pure” in English.

- the guttural “r” in French is going to be denoted with “hr”

- “an”, “on” and “in” are nasal sounds

- Please note that even native speakers disagree on some pronunciations

//

Charles Pierre François Augereau (O-zher-hro)

Jean-Baptiste Jules Bernadotte (Ber-nah-dot)

Louis-Alexandre Berthier (Behr-ti-yer)

Jean-Baptiste Bessières (Be-si-ehr)

Guillaume Marie-Anne Brune (Brüne)

Louis-Nicolas Davout (Dah-voo)

Jean-Baptiste Jourdan (Zhoohr-don)

François-Étienne-Christophe Kellermann (Ke-ler-mahn)

Jean Lannes (Lahn)

François Joseph Lebfevre (Le-fevhr)

André Masséna (Maa-sen-na)

Bon-Adrien Jeannot de Moncey (Mon-sey)

Adolphe Édouard Casimir Joseph Mortier (Mohr-ti-yer)

Joachim-Napoléon Murat (Mü-hra)

Michel Ney (it’s between Neh and Nay)

for details, watch this clip of our ginger babe demanding soup (source: Jean-Roch Coignet TV série)

#SoupepourNey #SoupforNey

Catherine-Dominique de Pérignon (Pe-hri-zhnon)

Jean-Mathieu-Philibert Sérurier (Se-hrü-hri-ehr)

Jean-de-Dieu Soult (Soo)

Claude Victor-Perrin (Vik-tor-Per-hran)

Étienne Jacques Joseph Alexandre MacDonald (Mack-Don-nal)

Auguste Frédéric Louis Viesse de Marmont (Mahr-mon)

Nicolas Charles Oudinot (Oo-di-no)

Louis-Gabriel Suchet (Sü-shay)

Laurent de Gouvion-Saint-Cyr (Goo-vi-on-Son-Seehr)

Józef Antoni Poniatowski (Pon-ee-ah-tov-ski)

Emmanuel de Grouchy (Ghroo-shee)

I hope I get everything right, also here I would like to thank @histoireettralala for helping me to make this post happen🙈

[histoireettralala]

Napoléon’s Trusted Commanders.

The three division commanders who presented themselves to General Bonaparte were formidable men. At 53, the tall and gloomy Jean Sérurier was the eldest. A former nobleman, his 34 years in the old Royal Army had made him a soldier of the “Ancien Régime.” In sharp contrast was the 38-year-old Charles-Pierre-François Augereau, whose towering height and reputation as one of France’s most accomplished swordsmen had made him an imposing figure. Despite his humble origins in the Paris gutters, Augereau’s coarse language, incredible adventures, and popularity with his men, as well as his ability as a tactician, rendered him a thorough soldier.

Finally, André Masséna, who had previously served with Bonaparte at Toulon in 1794, was already famous as the victor of the Battle of Loano. Although Masséna would demonstrate his infinite thirst for riches and women, he would also prove to be one of Napoleon’s most capable generals.

In addition to these three, Napoleon would be served by several men he had brought with him from Paris. These included Alexandre Berthier, who would become perhaps the best chief of staff in military history; Colonel Joachim Murat, arguably the most flamboyant cavalry general who ever fought; the young artillery expert Auguste Marmont; the impetuous Jean-Andoche Junot; and the faithful Géraud-Christophe-Michel Duroc.

Meanwhile, already serving the Army of Italy in subordinate positions were future great French generals: the fearless Jean Lannes, the cool Jean-Baptiste Bessières, the able Louis-Gabriel Suchet, plus Barthélemy-Catherine Joubert and Claude Victor.

[From an article by Jeremy Green, here]