"A servant!" cried Mr. Batulcar, caressing the thick grey beard which hung from his chin. "I already have two who are obedient and faithful, have never left me, and serve me for their nourishment—and here they are," added he, holding out his two robust arms, furrowed with veins as large as the strings of a bass viol.
"So I can be of no use to you?"
"None."
"The devil! I should so like to cross the Pacific with you!"
"Ah!" said the Honorable Mr. Batulcar. "You are no more a
Japanese than I am a monkey! Why are you dressed up in that way?"
"A man dresses as he can."
"That's true. You are a Frenchman, aren't you?"
"Yes. A Parisian of Paris."
"Then you ought to know how to make grimaces?"
"Why," replied Passepartout, a little vexed that his nationality should cause this question, "we Frenchmen know how to make grimaces, it is true—but not any better than the Americans do."