One day, at Malmaison (I think a short time after the Empire was
founded), the Empress Josephine had given explicit orders that no one
should be admitted. The Marechale Lefebvre presented herself; but the
usher, compelled by his orders, refused to allow her to enter. She
insisted, and he still refused. During this discussion, the Empress,
passing from one apartment to the other, was seen through a glass door
which separated this apartment from that in which the duchess then was.
The Empress, having also seen her, hastily advanced to meet her, and
insisted on her entering. Before passing in, Madame Lefebvre turned to
the usher, and said to him in a mocking tone, "Well, my good fellow, you
see I got in!" The poor usher blushed up to his ears, and withdrew in
confusion.

Marshal Lefebvre was not less good, less excellent, than his wife; and it
might well be said of them that high honors had made no change in their
manners. The good they both did could not be told. It might have been
said that this was their only pleasure, the only compensation for a great
domestic misfortune. They had only one son, who was one of the worst men
in the whole Empire. Each day there were complaints against him; the
Emperor himself frequently admonished him on account of the high esteem
he had for his brave father. But there resulted no improvement, and his
natural viciousness only manifested itself the more. He was killed in
some battle, I forget which; and as little worthy of regret as he was,
his death was a deep affliction to his excellent mother, although he even
forgot himself so far as to speak disrespectfully of her in his coarse
speeches. She usually made M. de Fontanes the confidant of her sorrows;
for the grand master of the university, notwithstanding his exquisite
politeness and his admirable literary style, was very intimately
associated with the household of Marshal Lefebvre.