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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 + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + “FIN TIREUR” + </h1> + <h2> + By Robert Hichens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers + </h3> + <h4> + Copyright, 1905 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Sidi-Hamdane,” he answered, without turning his head. “At the inn of ‘Fin + Tireur.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bon soir, m’sieu</i>,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bon soir!</i>,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + This was my host, the innkeeper whom the driver had called “Fin Tireur.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When I had finished dinner I lit a cigar. I was now quite alone in the + bare <i>salle-à-manger</i>. 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 <i>Journal Anti-Juif</i> of Algiers. He put it down + politely as I came in. + </p> + <p> + “You’re alone, monsieur,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, m’sieu. The driver has gone to see to the horses.” + </p> + <p> + I offered him one of my Havanas, which he accepted with alacrity, and drew + up with him before the fire. + </p> + <p> + “You have been living here long, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty years, m’sieu.” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty years alone in this desert place!” + </p> + <p> + “Nineteen years alone, m’sieu. Before that I had my little Marie.” + </p> + <p> + “Marie?” + </p> + <p> + “My child, m’sieu. She is buried in the sand behind the inn.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He puffed away at his Havana. + </p> + <p> + “You come from France?” I asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “From the Midi—I was born at Cassis, near Marseille.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you ever intend to go back there?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, m’sieu. Would you have me desert my child?” + </p> + <p> + “But,” I said gently, “she is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I have promised her that her <i>bon papa</i> will lie with her + presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!” + </p> + <p> + A sudden look of horror came into his face. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t like the Arabs?” + </p> + <p> + “Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that your name was Fin Tireur.’” + </p> + <p> + “‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me half defiantly, half wistfully, I thought. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I daresay you won’t understand.” “I think I shall,” I answered, + looking full at him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He puffed at his cigar for a minute or two, and the hot look in his eyes + became more definite, like a fanned flame. + </p> + <p> + “You took a comrade?” + </p> + <p> + “I took a wife, a girl of Cassis. A good girl she was then.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just come from there.” + </p> + <p> + “They call it ‘Au Retour du Sahara.’” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had coffee there.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He struck his clenched hand down on the table. As he talked he had lost + his former consciousness of my close observation. + </p> + <p> + “But they know how to please women, m’sieu. + </p> + <p> + “They are often very handsome,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know—over the place where they smoke the kief.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘Did he read in the sand for you?’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes,’ she said; ‘he did.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What things did he read?’ + </p> + <p> + “She turned, and looked right at me. ‘That my fate lies in the sand,’ she + said—‘and yours, and hers.’ + </p> + <p> + “And she pointed at little Marie, who was playing with a yellow kid we had + then just by the door. + </p> + <p> + “‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Not much by here,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + “And that’s true, m’sieu. It’s hard ground, you know, at Beni-Mora.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said, offering him another cigar. + </p> + <p> + He refused it with a quick gesture. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Went!” + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>mon Dieu!</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + His face set rigidly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He fell suddenly into a moody silence. I broke it by saying: “It was the + sand-diviner?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me sharply. “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “You never found out?” + </p> + <p> + “At Beni-Mora the women go veiled,” he said harshly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom?” + </p> + <p> + “The French authorities, my own countrymen,” he laughed bitterly. “To save + me from getting myself murdered, m’sieu.” + </p> + <p> + “You would have been.” + </p> + <p> + “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——” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “And the sand-diviner?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But your name of Fin Tireur?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked across at me hard. + </p> + <p> + “Veiled women?” I repeated. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from his seat slowly, and stood by the wooden shutter, against + which the sand was driven by the wind. + </p> + <p> + “In a place like this, m’sieu, one keeps a revolver here.” + </p> + <p> + He put his hand to a pocket at the back of his breeches, brought out a + revolver, and pointed it at the shutter. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He put the revolver back into his pocket, and sat down again quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And that’s why they call me Fin Tireur.” + </p> + <p> + I said nothing, and sat staring at him. + </p> + <p> + “When the camels had been watered the caravan went on.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but the Arabs———” + </p> + <p> + “The Caïd had the body tied across a donkey—they told me.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t see?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Before I could reply, the door opening into the courtyard gaped, and the + driver entered, followed by a cloud of whirling sand grains. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Nom d’un chien!</i>” he exclaimed. “Get me a tumbler of wine, for the + love of God, Fin Tireur. My throat’s full of the sand. <i>Sacré nom d’un + nom d’un nom!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of “Fin Tireur”, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “FIN TIREUR” *** + +***** This file should be named 23416-h.htm or 23416-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/4/1/23416/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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