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,