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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of “Fin Tireur”, by Robert Hichens
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: “Fin Tireur”
+ 1905
+
+Author: Robert Hichens
+
+Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23416]
+Last Updated: December 17, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “FIN TIREUR” ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+“FIN TIREUR”
+
+By Robert Hichens
+
+Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers
+
+Copyright, 1905
+
+
+Two years ago I was travelling by diligence in the Sahara Desert on the
+great caravan route, which starts from Beni-Mora and ends, they say, at
+Tombouctou. For fourteen hours each day we were on the road, and each
+evening about nine o’clock we stopped at a Bordj, or Travellers’ House,
+ate a hasty meal, threw ourselves down on our gaudy Arab rugs, and slept
+heavily till the hour before dawn, drugged by fatigue, and by the
+strong air of the desert. In the late afternoon of the third day of our
+journeying we drove into a sandstorm. A great wind arose, carrying
+with it innumerable multitudes of sand grains, which whirled about
+the diligence and the struggling horses, blotting out the desert as
+completely as a London fog blots out the street on a November day.
+The cold became intense, and very soon I began to long for the next
+halting-place.
+
+“Where do we stop to-night?” I shouted to the French driver, who, with
+his yellow toque pulled down over his ears, was chirping encouragement
+to his horses.
+
+“Sidi-Hamdane,” he answered, without turning his head. “At the inn of
+‘Fin Tireur.’”
+
+Three hours later we drew up before a low building, from which a
+light shone kindly, and I scrambled down stiffly, and lurched into the
+longed-for shelter.
+
+There was a man in the doorway, a short, sturdy, middle-aged Frenchman,
+with strong features, a tuft of grey beard, heavy eyebrows, and dark,
+prominent eyes, with a hot, shining look in them.
+
+“_Bon soir, m’sieu_,” he said.
+
+“_Bon soir!_,” I answered.
+
+This was my host, the innkeeper whom the driver had called “Fin Tireur.”
+
+I found out afterwards that he was not only landlord of the desolate
+inn, but cook, garçon; in fact, the whole personnel. He lived there
+absolutely alone, and was the only European in this Arab village lost in
+the great spaces of the Sahara. This information I drew from him while
+he waited upon me at dinner, which I ate in solitude. My companions
+of the diligence were Arabs, who had melted away like ghosts into the
+desolation so soon as the diligence had rolled into the paved courtyard
+round which the one-storied house was built.
+
+When I had finished dinner I lit a cigar. I was now quite alone in the
+bare _salle-à-manger_. The storm was at its height; the sand was driven
+like hail against the wooden shutters of the windows, and I felt dreary
+enough. The French driver was no doubt supping in the kitchen with
+the landlord, perhaps beside a fire, I began to long for company, for
+warmth, and I resolved to join them. I opened the door, therefore, and
+peered out into the passage. There was no sound of voices; but I saw a
+light at a little distance, went towards it, and found myself in a small
+kitchen, where the landlord was sitting alone by a red wood fire in the
+midst of his pots and pans, smoking a thin black cigar, and reading
+a dirty number of the _Journal Anti-Juif_ of Algiers. He put it down
+politely as I came in.
+
+“You’re alone, monsieur,” I said.
+
+“Yes, m’sieu. The driver has gone to see to the horses.”
+
+I offered him one of my Havanas, which he accepted with alacrity, and
+drew up with him before the fire.
+
+“You have been living here long, monsieur?”
+
+“Twenty years, m’sieu.”
+
+“Twenty years alone in this desert place!”
+
+“Nineteen years alone, m’sieu. Before that I had my little Marie.”
+
+“Marie?”
+
+“My child, m’sieu. She is buried in the sand behind the inn.”
+
+I looked at him in silence. His brown, wrinkled face was calm, but in
+his prominent eyes there was still the hot shining look I had observed
+in them when I arrived.
+
+“The palms begin there,” he added. “Year by year I have saved what I
+could, and now I have bought all the palm-trees near where she lies.”
+
+He puffed away at his Havana.
+
+“You come from France?” I asked presently.
+
+“From the Midi--I was born at Cassis, near Marseille.”
+
+“Don’t you ever intend to go back there?”
+
+“Never, m’sieu. Would you have me desert my child?”
+
+“But,” I said gently, “she is dead.”
+
+“Yes; but I have promised her that her _bon papa_ will lie with her
+presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!”
+
+A sudden look of horror came into his face.
+
+“You don’t like the Arabs?”
+
+“Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?”
+
+“Only that your name was Fin Tireur.’”
+
+“‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.”
+
+“You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?”
+
+He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold.
+
+“Oh! they don’t call me ‘Fin Tireur’ because I can hit gazelle, and
+bring them home for supper. No, no! Shall I tell you why?”
+
+He looked at me half defiantly, half wistfully, I thought.
+
+“But if I do, perhaps your stomach will turn against the food I cooked
+with these hands,” he added suddenly, stretching out his hands towards
+me, “You are English, m’sieu?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then I daresay you won’t understand.” “I think I shall,” I answered,
+looking full at him.
+
+The way he had spoken of his child had drawn me to him. Whatever he had
+done, I felt that chivalry and tenderness were in this man.
+
+“Why do they call you ‘Fin Tireur’?” “The men of the Midi, m’sieu, are
+not like the men of the rest of France,” said Fin Tireur--“at least
+so they say. We are boasters, perhaps; but we’ve got more love of
+adventure, more wish to see the world, and do something big in it.
+They’re talkers, you know, in the Midi, and they tell of what they’ve
+done. I heard them at Cassis when I was a boy, and one day I saw a
+Zouave in front of the inn balcony, where folks come on fête days to eat
+the bouillabaisse. The talk I had heard made me wish to rove; but when I
+saw the Zouave, in his big red trousers and blue and red jacket, I
+said to myself: ‘As soon as my three years’ service is over I’ll go to
+Africa, and make my fortune.’ I did my three years at Grenoble, m’sieu,
+and when it was done I carried out my resolve. I came to Africa; but I
+didn’t come alone.”
+
+He puffed at his cigar for a minute or two, and the hot look in his eyes
+became more definite, like a fanned flame.
+
+“You took a comrade?”
+
+“I took a wife, a girl of Cassis. A good girl she was then.”
+
+He paused again, then continued, in rather a loud voice: “She was good,
+m’sieu, because she had seen nothing. That’s often the way. It was I
+who put it into her head that there were things to be seen better than
+rocks, and dead white dusty roads, and fishing boats against the quay.
+I’ve thought of that since I--since I got my name of Fin Tireur. Her
+name was Marie, and she was eighteen when we stood before the priest.
+Next day we went to Marseille, and took the boat for Algiers. Our heads
+were full of I don’t know what. We thought we were clever ones, and
+should do well in a country like Africa. And so we did at first. We
+got into a hotel at Algiers. She was housemaid, and I was porter in the
+hall, and what with the goings and comings--strangers giving us a little
+when we’d done our best for them--we made some money, and we saved it.
+And I wish to God we’d spent it, every sou!”
+
+His voice became fierce for a moment. Then he continued, with an obvious
+effort to be calm: “You see, m’sieu, at Algiers we had nothing to say to
+the Arabs. With the money we’d saved we left Algiers, and came into the
+desert to take a café which was to let near the station at Beni-Mora.”
+
+“I’ve just come from there.”
+
+“They call it ‘Au Retour du Sahara.’”
+
+“I’ve had coffee there.”
+
+“That was ours, and there little Marie was born. In those days there
+weren’t many strangers in Beni-Mora. The railway had only just come
+there, and it was wild enough. Very few, except the Arabs. Well, they
+were often our customers. We learned to talk a bit of their language,
+and they a bit of ours; and, having no friends out there, I might say we
+made sort of friends with some of them. The dirty dogs! The camels!”
+
+He struck his clenched hand down on the table. As he talked he had lost
+his former consciousness of my close observation.
+
+“But they know how to please women, m’sieu.
+
+“They are often very handsome,” I said.
+
+“It isn’t only that. They can stare a woman down as a wild beast
+can, and that’s what women like. I never so much as looked on them as
+men--not in that way, for a Cassis woman, m’sieu. But Marie----”
+
+He choked, ground his teeth on his cigar stump, let it drop, and stamped
+out the glowing end on the brick floor with his heel.
+
+“She served them, m’sieu,” he resumed, after clearing his throat. “But
+I was mostly there, and I don’t see how--but women can always find the
+way. Well, one day she went to what they call a sand-diviner. She didn’t
+pretend anything. She told me she wanted to go, and I was ready. I was
+always ready that she should have any little pleasure. I couldn’t leave
+the café, so she went off alone to a room he had by the Garden of the
+Gazelles, at the end of the dancing-street.”
+
+“I know--over the place where they smoke the kief.”
+
+“She didn’t answer, but went and sat down under the arbour, opposite to
+where they wash the clothes. I followed her, for she looked ill.
+
+“‘Did he read in the sand for you?’ I said.
+
+“‘Yes,’ she said; ‘he did.’
+
+“‘What things did he read?’
+
+“She turned, and looked right at me. ‘That my fate lies in the sand,’
+she said--‘and yours, and hers.’
+
+“And she pointed at little Marie, who was playing with a yellow kid we
+had then just by the door.
+
+“‘What’s that to be afraid of?’ I asked her. ‘Haven’t we come to the
+desert to make our fortune, and isn’t there sand in the desert?’
+
+“‘Not much by here,’ she said.
+
+“And that’s true, m’sieu. It’s hard ground, you know, at Beni-Mora.”
+
+“Yes,” I said, offering him another cigar.
+
+He refused it with a quick gesture.
+
+“She never would say another word as to what the sand-diviner had told
+her; but she was never the same from that day. She was as uneasy as a
+lost bitch, m’sieu; and she made me uneasy too. Sometimes she wouldn’t
+speak to our little one when the child ran to her, and sometimes she’d
+catch her up, and kiss her till the little one’s cheek was as red as if
+you’d been striking it. And then one day, after dark, she went.”
+
+“Went!”
+
+“I’d been ill with fever, and gone to spend the night at the sulphur
+baths; you know, m’sieu, Hammam-Salahkin, under the mountains. I came
+back just at dawn to open the café. When I got off my mule at the door
+I heard”--his face twitched convulsively--“the most horrible crying of
+a child. It was so horrible that I just stood there, holding on to the
+bridle of the mule, and listening, and didn’t dare go in. I’d heard
+children cry often enough before; but--_mon Dieu!_--never like that. At
+last I dropped the bridle, and went in, with my legs shaking under me.
+I found the little one alone in the house, and like a mad thing. She’d
+been alone all night.”
+
+His face set rigidly.
+
+“And her mother knew I should be all night at the Hammam,” he said. “Fin
+Tireur--yes, it was coming back, and finding my little one left like
+that in such a place, made me earn the name.”
+
+He fell suddenly into a moody silence. I broke it by saying: “It was the
+sand-diviner?”
+
+He looked at me sharply. “I don’t know.”
+
+“You never found out?”
+
+“At Beni-Mora the women go veiled,” he said harshly.
+
+Suddenly I realised the horror of the situation: the deserted husband
+living on with his child in the midst of the ordained and close secrecy
+of Beni-Mora, where many of the women never set foot out of doors, and
+those who do, unless they are the public dancers, are so heavily veiled
+that their features cannot be recognised.
+
+“What did you do?” I asked.
+
+“I searched, as far as one can search in an Arab town, and found out
+nothing. I wanted to tear the veil from every woman in the place; and
+then I was sent away from Beni-Mora.”
+
+“By whom?”
+
+“The French authorities, my own countrymen,” he laughed bitterly. “To
+save me from getting myself murdered, m’sieu.”
+
+“You would have been.”
+
+“Why not? Then I came here to keep the inn for the diligence that
+carries the mails to the south, for I wouldn’t leave the country
+till----”
+
+He paused.
+
+“And the sand-diviner?”
+
+“I left him at Beni-Mora. He smiled, and said he knew no more than I;
+and perhaps he didn’t. How was I to tell?”
+
+“But your name of Fin Tireur?”
+
+“Ah!”--the thing in his eyes glowed like a thing red-hot--“I’d been here
+eleven months when, one afternoon of summer, just near sunset, I heard
+a noise of drums beating and African pipes screaming, and the snarl of
+camels on the road you came to-night. I was in the house, in this room
+where we are sitting now, and little Marie was playing just outside by
+the well, so that I could see her through the window. By the sounds, I
+knew a great caravan was coming up, and passing towards the south. They
+always water at the well, and I stood by the window to see them. Little
+Marie stood too, shading her eyes with her bit of a hand. The drums and
+pipes got louder, and round the corner of the inn came as big a caravan
+as I’ve ever seen; near a hundred camels, horsemen, and led mules and
+donkeys, Kabyle dogs and goats, the music playing all the time, and a
+Caïd’s flag flying in the front. They made for the well, as I knew they
+would, and little Marie stood all the while watching them. M’sieu, there
+were square packs on some of the camels, and veiled women on the packs.”
+
+He looked across at me hard.
+
+“Veiled women?” I repeated.
+
+“When they got to the well they made the camels kneel for the women to
+get down; and one of the women, when she was down, caught sight of Marie
+standing there, with her little hand shading her eyes. That woman gave a
+great cry behind her veil. I heard it, m’sieu, as I stood by the window
+there, and I saw the woman run at the little one.”
+
+He got up from his seat slowly, and stood by the wooden shutter, against
+which the sand was driven by the wind.
+
+“In a place like this, m’sieu, one keeps a revolver here.”
+
+He put his hand to a pocket at the back of his breeches, brought out a
+revolver, and pointed it at the shutter.
+
+“When I heard the woman cry I took my revolver out. When I saw the woman
+run I fired, and the bullet struck the veil.”
+
+He put the revolver back into his pocket, and sat down again quietly.
+
+“And that’s why they call me Fin Tireur.”
+
+I said nothing, and sat staring at him.
+
+“When the camels had been watered the caravan went on.”
+
+“But--but the Arabs------”
+
+“The Caïd had the body tied across a donkey--they told me.”
+
+“You didn’t see?”
+
+“No. I took the little one in. She was screaming, and I had to see
+to her. It was two days afterwards, when I was at the market, that a
+scorpion stung her. She was dead when I came back. Well, m’sieu, are you
+sorry you ate your supper?”
+
+Before I could reply, the door opening into the courtyard gaped, and the
+driver entered, followed by a cloud of whirling sand grains.
+
+“_Nom d’un chien!_” he exclaimed. “Get me a tumbler of wine, for the
+love of God, Fin Tireur. My throat’s full of the sand. _Sacré nom d’un
+nom d’un nom!_”
+
+He pulled off his coat, turned it upside down, and shook the sand out
+of the pockets, while Fin Tireur went over to the corner of the kitchen
+where the bottles stood in a row against the earthen wall.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of “Fin Tireur”, by Robert Hichens
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “FIN TIREUR” ***
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