Off on a Comet by Jules Verne (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS ORDERLY

At the time of which I write, there might be seen in the registers

of the Minister of War the following entry:

SERVADAC (_Hector_), born at St. Trelody in the district of Lesparre,

department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18—.

Property: 1200 francs in rentes.

Length of service: Fourteen years, three months, and five days.

Service: Two years at school at St. Cyr; two years at L’Ecole d’Application;

two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line; two years in the 3rd Light Cavalry;

seven years in Algeria.

Campaigns: Soudan and Japan.

Rank: Captain on the staff at Mostaganem.

Decorations: Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, March 13th, 18—.

Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan without lineage

and almost without means. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold,

slightly scatter-brained, but warm-hearted, generous, and brave,

he was eminently formed to be the protege of the god of battles.

For the first year and a half of his existence he had been

the foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of Medoc—

a lineal descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word,

he was one of those individuals whom nature seems to have

predestined for remarkable things, and around whose cradle

have hovered the fairy godmothers of adventure and good luck.

In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of an officer; he was rather

more than five feet six inches high, slim and graceful, with dark curling

hair and mustaches, well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue eye.

He seemed born to please without being conscious of the power he possessed.

It must be owned, and no one was more ready to confess it than himself,

that his literary attainments were by no means of a high order.

“We don’t spin tops” is a favorite saying amongst artillery officers,

indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous pursuits; but it

must be confessed that Servadac, being naturally idle, was very much given

to “spinning tops.” His good abilities, however, and his ready intelligence

had carried him successfully through the curriculum of his early career.

He was a good draughtsman, an excellent rider—having thoroughly mastered

the successor to the famous “Uncle Tom” at the riding-school of St. Cyr—

and in the records of his military service his name had several times been

included in the order of the day.

The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree,

to illustrate his character. Once, in action, he was

leading a detachment of infantry through an intrenchment.

They came to a place where the side-work of the trench had been

so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually fallen in,

leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the grape-shot

that was pouring in thick and fast. The men hesitated.

In an instant Servadac mounted the side-work, laid himself

down in the gap, and thus filling up the breach by his own body,

shouted, “March on!”

And through a storm of shot, not one of which touched the prostrate officer,

the troop passed in safety.

Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the exception

of his two campaigns in the Soudan and Japan, had been always

stationed in Algeria. He had now a staff appointment at Mostaganem,

and had lately been entrusted with some topographical work

on the coast between Tenes and the Shelif. It was a matter of

little consequence to him that the gourbi, in which of necessity

he was quartered, was uncomfortable and ill-contrived; he loved

the open air, and the independence of his life suited him well.

Sometimes he would wander on foot upon the sandy shore,

and sometimes he would enjoy a ride along the summit of the cliff;

altogether being in no hurry at all to bring his task to an end.

His occupation, moreover, was not so engrossing but that he could

find leisure for taking a short railway journey once or twice

a week; so that he was ever and again putting in an appearance

at the general’s receptions at Oran, and at the fetes given

by the governor at Algiers.

It was on one of these occasions that he had first met Madame de L–-,

the lady to whom he was desirous of dedicating the rondo, the first four

lines of which had just seen the light. She was a colonel’s widow,

young and handsome, very reserved, not to say haughty in her manner,

and either indifferent or impervious to the admiration which she inspired.

Captain Servadac had not yet ventured to declare his attachment;

of rivals he was well aware he had not a few, and amongst these not

the least formidable was the Russian Count Timascheff. And although

the young widow was all unconscious of the share she had in the matter,

it was she, and she alone, who was the cause of the challenge just given

and accepted by her two ardent admirers.

During his residence in the gourbi, Hector Servadac’s sole

companion was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was devoted,

body and soul, to his superior officer. His own personal

ambition was so entirely absorbed in his master’s welfare,

that it is certain no offer of promotion—even had it been

that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of Algiers—

would have induced him to quit that master’s service.

His name might seem to imply that he was a native of Algeria;

but such was by no means the case. His true name was Laurent;

he was a native of Montmartre in Paris, and how or why he had

obtained his patronymic was one of those anomalies which the most

sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.

Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino tower and the mill

of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed the most unreserved

admiration for his birthplace; and to his eyes the heights and district

of Montmartre represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world.

In all his travels, and these had been not a few, he had never

beheld scenery which could compete with that of his native home.

No cathedral—not even Burgos itself—could vie with the church

at Montmartre. Its race-course could well hold its own against

that at Pentelique; its reservoir would throw the Mediterranean

into the shade; its forests had flourished long before the invasion

of the Celts; and its very mill produced no ordinary flour,

but provided material for cakes of world-wide renown.

To crown all, Montmartre boasted a mountain—a veritable mountain;

envious tongues indeed might pronounce it little more than a hill;

but Ben Zoof would have allowed himself to be hewn in pieces

rather than admit that it was anything less than fifteen thousand

feet in height.

Ben Zoof’s most ambitious desire was to induce the captain to go

with him and end his days in his much-loved home, and so incessantly

were Servadac’s ears besieged with descriptions of the unparalleled

beauties and advantages of this eighteenth arrondissement of Paris,

that he could scarcely hear the name of Montmartre without a conscious

thrill of aversion. Ben Zoof, however, did not despair of ultimately

converting the captain, and meanwhile had resolved never to leave him.

When a private in the 8th Cavalry, he had been on the point of quitting

the army at twenty-eight years of age, but unexpectedly he had been appointed

orderly to Captain Servadac. Side by side they fought in two campaigns.

Servadac had saved Ben Zoof’s life in Japan; Ben Zoof had rendered

his master a like service in the Soudan. The bond of union thus

effected could never be severed; and although Ben Zoof’s achievements

had fairly earned him the right of retirement, he firmly declined all

honors or any pension that might part him from his superior officer.

Two stout arms, an iron constitution, a powerful frame, and an

indomitable courage were all loyally devoted to his master’s service,

and fairly entitled him to his soi-disant designation of “The Rampart

of Montmartre.” Unlike his master, he made no pretension to any gift of

poetic power, but his inexhaustible memory made him a living encyclopaedia;

and for his stock of anecdotes and trooper’s tales he was matchless.

Thoroughly appreciating his servant’s good qualities, Captain Servadac

endured with imperturbable good humor those idiosyncrasies,

which in a less faithful follower would have been intolerable,

and from time to time he would drop a word of sympathy that served

to deepen his subordinate’s devotion.

On one occasion, when Ben Zoof had mounted his hobby-horse,

and was indulging in high-flown praises about his beloved

eighteenth arrondissement, the captain had remarked gravely,

“Do you know, Ben Zoof, that Montmartre only requires a matter

of some thirteen thousand feet to make it as high as Mont Blanc?”

Ben Zoof’s eyes glistened with delight; and from that moment Hector Servadac

and Montmartre held equal places in his affection.