conscious of counting
beats. Their whole being was in that hand-sized bit of paper vibrating
in brass prongs at the end of their instruments. "One, two, three...!"
They have everything they need these fine men, except they never play
the national anthem; it makes them home sick.... Alas, I haven't much
of a musical ear and this piece irritates me, so I'm off....

* * * * *

Now, where on earth would I be able to have a nice time, on a grey
Sunday like this? I know! Sid'Omar's shop is open. I'm going there.

He may have a shop, Sid'Omar, but he is no shopkeeper. He is a prince
of the blood line, the son of a former Dey of Algeria, who was
strangled to death by Turkish soldiers.... When his father was killed,
he sought refuge in Milianah with his adored mother. He lived there for
several years like a fine gentleman philosopher with his greyhounds,
falcons, horses, and wives in this attractive and refreshing palace,
amongst the orange trees and fountains. Then the French came; we came.
Sid'Omar was our enemy at first and allied himself with Abd-el-Kader,
but then he fell out with the Emir and surrendered to us. While
Sid'Omar was away from Milianah, the Emir took revenge by pillaging his
palace. He flattened his orange trees, made off with his horses and
wives; and killed his mother, cruelly crushing her throat under the lid
of a large chest.... Sid'Omar's anger knew no bounds: within the hour
he had enrolled himself in the French army, and we had no better,
fiercer soldier, for as long as our war with the Emir lasted. Sid'Omar
returned to Milianah; but even today at the merest mention of
Abd-el-Kader, he grows pale and his eyes light up.

Sid'Omar is sixty now, and despite his age and the smallpox, his face
has stayed rather handsome. He has long eyelashes, with an appealing
look and a charming smile; very prince-like. The war ruined him, and
all he has left of his former opulence is a farm in the plain of Chelif
and a house in Milianah, where he lives a bourgeois life with his three
sons, who are being brought up under his aegis. The local bigwigs hold
him in some veneration. If a dispute breaks out they are only too happy
to let him arbitrate; and his judgement usually carries the weight of
law. He seldom goes out; you can usually find him every afternoon next
door in a shop which opens onto the road. It is not opulently
furnished; the walls are whitewashed, and there are a circular wooden
benc