The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
alone with either of them, without fear. They must have been silent rides--with a strange dumb alphabet! Nor would she listen to my words of warning.
"Don't you worry, Major de Beaujolais," she would say, "I tell you they are all right. Yes, both of them. I am just as safe with them as I am with you. . . . And I'm awfully safe with you, Major, am I not?"
Women always know better than men--until they find they know nothing about the matter at all.
The next thing that I did not like, was the giving of feasts to which the girls alone were invited; and then feasts at which Mary alone, or Maudie alone, was the guest.
However, such invitations were commands, of course; the feasts were held in the Emir's pavilion, which was but a few yards from our tent; I took care that the girls had their pistols, and I always sat ready for instant action if I should hear a scream when either of them was there alone.
Nor was there any great privacy observed, for servants were in and out with dishes, and unless there was a strong gibli blowing, the pavilion entrance was open.
But more and more I became a prisoner, and now when I took my daily ride it was with Marbruk ben Hassan and an escort--for my "protection."
One night, as I lay awake, the horrible thought occurred to me of using Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie to farther my ends--and I was almost sick at the bare idea. Whence come these devilish thoughts into clean minds?
No. At that I drew the line. My life for France, but not a girl's honour. . . . I thrust the vile thought from me.
Soon afterwards I fell asleep and had a curious dream. . . .
I was in a vast hall, greater than any built by mortal hands. At the end to which I faced were vast black velvet curtains. As I stood gazing at these, expectant, they parted and rolled away, revealing a huge pair of golden scales, in each great cup of which was seated a most beautiful woman.
One, a noble and commanding figure, wore the Cap of Liberty and I knew her to be the Genius and Goddess and Embodiment of France. . . . The other, a beautiful and beseeching figure, I saw to be Mary Vanbrugh.
Each of these lovely creatures gave me a smile of ineffable sweetness and extended a welcoming hand. . . . A great voice cried "Choose," and, as I strode forward, the great curtains fell--and the dream became a nightmare in which a colossal brazen god stretched a vast hand from a brazen sky to destroy me where I stood in the midst of an illimitable arid desert. . . .
§ 2
Then to me, one night, came the Emir and the Vizier, clearly on business bent. There was no faddhling. As soon as I had offered them seats upon the rugs and produced my last Turkish cigarettes, the Emir got to business.
"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.