Free Arabesque by Geoffrey Household Page A

with
the Jews against the Moslem—and the Jews, because they are worse fanatics than either, will be the only gainers. We are mad to want independence: but since we do want it we need
arms.”
    “All that may be true,” said Armande boldly, “but you are like the French. You think too far ahead. The other wars may never happen. Help your fellow Christians now.”
    “Madame, is this truly a Crusade?’ Wadiah asked thoughtfully.
    “The Archimandrite says that Hitler is Antichrist.”
    Sheikh Wadiah glanced at him. Unfortunately the Archimandrite was permitting Floarea to examine his ring. Both displayed a reasonable degree of piety, but their curls were touching.
    “The Archimandrite can say what he pleases,” answered Wadiah with dignity. “He is Orthodox, and therefore superstitious. But we, the Maronites, Madame, are not children. We are
of the body of the Catholic Church except that we appoint our own Patriarch and use Syriac instead of Latin.”
    Sheikh Wadiah, letting himself drift upon a convenient tide of indignation, began to lecture on the history of his ancient church. Armande knew well that he was avoiding any further mention of
arms. Negotiations had been broken off smoothly, and without a trace of discourtesy.
    Armande re-entered the general conversation of her party. Then she removed Floarea’s ecclesiastic and, from both pique and curiosity, monopolised him. Wadiah, wearying at last of light
cabaret chat with his cousin and the two Rumanians, delivered a flowery speech of thanks and farewell, and clapped his hands. Instantly Fouad clattered up with the horses out of the night, and
escorted his chieftain home.
    The next morning, while she lay in bed and let the cool air of the mountain dawn drift across the pillow. Armande considered that on the whole her opening move had been successful. Though
without experience, she had a sure intuition that to extract ill-gotten arms from Christian, Moslem and, probably, Jew was the most difficult assignment in the Middle East. The subject, however,
had been mentioned, and no damage done. True, she expected more frankness from Wadiah. A definite
no
would have been more easy to handle than his Oriental diplomacy. Yet there had been
indications of the way to Wadiah’s heart—by chivalry, Christianity or a mixture of both.
    At their next meetings she treated him with a new coldness; not deliberately, but because it seemed impossible to recover their formal intimacy. This was evidently the right policy. Sheikh
Wadiah showed himself hurt, and a little worried.
    He made several attempts to fish for what Armande and the military would do if he did not give up his supposed arms. As she had not the least idea what threats were likely to be believed, she
was unresponsive. She implied that nothing whatever would be done, that the hierarchy of the army was indifferent to yet another neutral—Wadiah’s prestige would merely be a little less.
She reminded herself of a schoolmistress dealing with a problem child. No punishment, my dear, because you are not important enough.
    Wadiah’s first appeal for forgiveness came in an impetuous assertion that he had consulted the leaders of his church—which Armande doubted, having seen in Beit Chabab no Maronite
ecclesiastics but the parish priest—and that indeed Hitler might be held to be inspired by the devil. Armande again dropped the word “Crusade,” and left it to work.
    The end came, quite unexpectedly, one afternoon upon the terrace when Wadiah had led the conversation to the war and asked how long it would go on.
    The first wind of autumn wailed up from Beirut between the crags.
    “I think for years yet,” she answered, “lost, interminable years.”
    Sheikh Wadiah patted her hand in sympathy.
    “Your husband will be proud of you when you return.”
    “Perhaps.”
    It was not a thought that had inspired her. John was always proud of her for such odd things: for courage that one could not help, for action