P. C. Wren - The Collected Works of P. C. Wren - Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories

"Touching the treaty with your Excellency's great country," he began, and my heart leapt with hope. "I will sign it--on terms. . . . On terms further than those named hitherto."

He stopped and appeared to be enjoying the Turkish cigarette intensely.

"And they are, Commander of the Faithful and Shadow of the Prophet?" I inquired.

"That you take the treaty, signed and sealed by me, and witnessed by my Vizier and twelve ekhwan-- and leave the two Sitts whom you brought here ."

* * *

So it had come! I was faced with the decision of a lifetime!

" That is impossible , Emir el Hamel el Kebir," I seemed to hear myself reply, after a minute of acute agony, which bathed me in perspiration from head to foot.

The Emir raised his big black eyebrows and gave me a supercilious, penetrating hawk-stare of surprise and anger.

"And why?" he inquired quietly.

"Because they put themselves under my protection," I replied, "and I have put myself and them under yours. . . ."

"And I am merely suggesting that they remain there," interrupted the Emir.

"For how long?" I sneered.

"That is for them to say," was the reply.

"Then let them say it," I answered. "Emir, I have treated you as a Bedouin Chief, a true Arab of the Desert, a man of chivalry, honour, hospitality, and greatness. Would you, in return, speak to me of trafficking in women? . . ."

To Hell with their treaty and their tribes , . . .--and then the face of my uncle, the words of his letters, and memories of my life-work rose before my eyes. . . . Neither of these girls was a Frenchwoman. . . . I had not asked them to come here. . . . I had warned them against coming. . . . I had told them plainly that I was going on a mission of national importance. . . . And de Lannec. . . . " Exit de Lannec "! . . .

I strode up and down the tent, the two Arabs, calm, imperturbable, stroking their beards and watching me. . . . I reasoned with myself, as a Frenchman should, logically .

Glorious logic--the foe of sloppiness, emotionalism, sentimentality.

I can but hope, looking back upon this crucial moment of my life, that such matters as my utter ruin and disgrace; my loss of all that made life good; my fall from a place of honour, dignity, and opportunity, to the very gutters of life; my renunciation of ambition, reward and success--weighed with me not at all, and were but as dust in the balance. . . .

I can but hope that, coolly and without bias, I answered the question as to whether the interests of France, the lives of thousands of men, the loss of incalculable treasure should, or should not, out-weigh the interests of two foreign women.

Should thousands of French soldiers suffer wounds and death--or should these two girls enter the hareems of Arab Sheikhs? . . .

Should I fulfil the trust reposed in me or betray it?

" I want tools that will not turn in my hand . . . . Tools on which I can absolutely rely ," my uncle--my General, the representative of my Country--had said to me; and I had willingly offered myself as a tool that would not turn in his hand . . . that would not fail him. . . .

And if "it is expedient that one man shall die for the people," was it not expedient that two foreign women should be sacrificed to prevent a war, to save an Empire? . . . Two lives instead of two thousand, twenty thousand, two hundred thousand. . . .

If, as my uncle said, there would always be danger in Morocco to the French African Empire, and if, whenever that danger arose, this great Tribal Confederation became a source of even greater danger . . . ?

"And for what was I here ? For what had I been fashioned and made, taught and trained, hammered on the hard anvil of experience? . . . Why was I in my Service-- but to do the very thing that it now lay to my hand to do ?"

As an honest and honourable man, I must put the orders of my General, the honour and tradition of my Service, and, above all, the welfare of my Country, before everything--and everybody .

Logic showed me the truth--and, suddenly, I stopped in my stride, turned and shook my fist in the Emir's very face and shouted: " Damn your black face and blacker soul, you filthy hound! Get out of my tent before I throw you out, you bestial swine! . . . WHITE WOMEN! You black dogs and sons of dogs . . . !" and, shaking with rage, I pointed to the doorway of my tent.

* * *

They rose and went--and, with them, went all my hopes of success. What had I done? What had I done? . . . But Mary--sweet, lovely, brave, fascinating Mary . . . and that black-bearded dog !

Let France sink beneath the sea first. . . .

But what had I done? . . . What had I done ? . . . What is 'Right' and what is 'Wrong'? What voice had I obeyed?

Anyhow, I was unfit, utterly unfit, for my great Service--and I would break my sword and burn my uniform, go back to my uncle, confess what I had done and enlist in the Foreign Legion. . . .

Oh, splendid de Lannec ! . . . He was right, of course. . . .

But this was ruin and the end of Henri de Beaujolais.

Then a voice through the felt wall that cut off my part of the tent from the anderun said,

"Your language certainly sounded bad, Major! I am glad I don't understand Arabic!"

I was not very sure that I was glad she did not.

And as little as she understood Arabic did I understand whether I had done right or wrong.

But one thing I understood. I was a Failure. . . . I had failed my General, my Service, and my Country--but yet I somehow felt I had not failed my higher Self. . . .

§ 3

It was the next morning that Miss Vanbrugh greeted me with the words:

"Major, you haven't congratulated me yet. I had an honest-to-God offer of marriage from a leading citizen of this burg yesterday. . . . I'm blushing still. . . . Inwardly. . . ."

I was horrified. . . . What next?

"From whom?" I asked.

"The Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir."

"Good God!" I groaned. "Miss Vanbrugh, we shall have to walk very very delicately. . . ."

"So'll the Sheikh-lad," observed Mary grimly.

"But how did he make the proposal?" I inquired, knowing that no one in the place could translate and interpret except myself.

"By signs and wonders," answered the girl. " Some wonders! He certainly made himself clear . . . !"

"Was he? . . . Did he? . . ." I stammered, hardly knowing how to ask if the ruffian had seized her in his hot, amorous embrace and made fierce love to her. . . . My blood boiled, though my heart sank, and I knew that depth of trembling apprehension that is the true Fear--the fear for another whom we--whom we--esteem.

"Now don't you go prying heavy-hoofed into a young thing's first love affair, Major--because I shan't stand for it," replied Miss Vanbrugh.

"Had you your pistol with you?" I asked.

"I had, Major," was the reply. "I don't get caught that way twice."

And I reflected that if the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir was still alive, he had not been violent.

* * *

That day I was not allowed to ride out for exercise, and a big Soudanese sentry was posted closer to my tent-door.

Hitherto I had felt myself under strict surveillance now I was under actual arrest.

The girls were invited, or ordered, to go riding as usual, and my frame of mind can be imagined.

Nothing could save them. . . . Nothing could now bring about the success of my mission--unless it were the fierce greed of these Arabs for gold. . . . I was a wretchedly impotent puppet in their hands. . . .

Now that I had mortally insulted and antagonized these fierce despots, what could I do to protect the woman . . . the women . . . whom I had brought here, and whose sole hope and trust was in me? . . .