Off on a Comet

might be seen in the registers of th

y in the district of Lesparre, depart

1200 franc

urteen years, three m

le d’Application; two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line

: Soudan

on the staff

r of the Legion of Ho

ans. Thirsting for glory rather than for gold, slightly scatter-brained, but warm-hearte

— a lineal descendant of the heroes of ancient prowess; in a word, he was one of those individuals whom nature seems to ha

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

ace 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 pouri

ne of which touched the prostrate

nsequence 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 i

ot 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 l

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

ery 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 produ

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

ood humor those idiosyncrasies, which in a less faithful follower would have been intolerable, and

out his beloved eighteenth arrondissement, the captain had remarked gravely, “Do you know, Ben Zoof, t

m that moment Hector Servadac and Montmartre he