offence. One of her most passionate defenders, Señor Gomez Carrillo, in
his _Le mystère de la vie et de la mort de Mata Hari_, has candidly
admitted that he believes her to have been guilty of the charge of
espionage and intelligence with the enemy, but in contesting every point
which indicates her guilt he submits an impassioned plea for her point
of view as a neurotic and perverted debauchée, as though that were an
adequate defence for the crime of betraying innocent men to their
deaths. Almost simultaneously come the more subtle efforts of the German
sympathizers to canonize her as a martyr to their cause. The German
authorities have every reason to feel grateful to Mata Hari for her
devotion to duty. When a spy’s life is judged entirely by the measure of
achievement, then Mata Hari is fully entitled to a high reputation in
her profession. It is when her life is compared with others’ whose hands
are not blood-stained and who are innocent of treachery that one must
enter a protest against the attribution of qualities to a spy’s duties
which not only fail to rehabilitate Mata Hari, but which lead to a
complete misconception of the work she performed.
In order to cultivate a sympathetic public for their accomplished spy,
the Germans have compared Mata Hari to one of the victims of their
wrath, Miss Edith Cavell. There can be no comparison, only contrast.
Mata Hari was accused of spying, with having caused the deaths of many
men. Competent French authorities declare the losses which can be
attributed directly to her intrigues amounted to nearly 50,000 men.
Edith Cavell was charged with harbouring refugees, not with spying; she
was charged with saving lives, not with taking them. If there is any
possible defence for the actions of a spy it is that motives of
patriotism prompted him to undertake a dangerous work against an enemy
power. Since Mata Hari was the native of a state which never entered the
war, and since she cloaked her actions under the guise of a neutral, no
motive of patriotism can be advanced in her favour.
Should there be any suspicion that her judges were actuated by
animosity, let it be said that she was treated throughout the trial with
a courtesy which one would expect any lady would receive from men who
were gentlemen by instinct. If the accused resented some of the
questions asked concerning her relations with men, it must be recalled
that the character of courtesan was her chosen line of defence. The
investigators were remorseless in their pursuit of the truth, but at no
stage of the trial did the accused woman or her lawyer protest against
the injustice she is alleged to have encountered. There were times when
she pleaded with her judges, but it was a plea for men to treat a woman
with gallantry, not because they were being unjust or because she wished
to have their justice tempered with mercy. The terrible Mornay, special
scourge of traitors and spies, did rouse her to anger at one stage of
the trial, but that was because of his keen scent for the truth which
underlay an ambiguous statement.
It is a generally accepted fact that when a person is wrongfully accused
of spying, the nation for whom he is alleged to be working will
generously make some confidential representations to secure his release.
No country tries to save its own spies; those unhappy creatures, when
caught, are left to stew in their own juice. But a wrongfully accused
person who has no friends among the other nations can always secure the
support of his own country’s representatives. It was, for example, very
much to the disadvantage of Dreyfus that no foreign country interposed
on his behalf or denied the accusation that he had spied in their
interests; in the eyes of many well-informed people that omission was
conclusive evidence of guilt apart from any further evidence. Nor did
anyone arise to protect Mata Hari until after her conviction, and then
the utmost her friends attempted was to beg for a mitigation of
sentence. At no time did she make any request to the Minister of the Low
Countries for assistance. Such an application would have obtained an
immediate response, since it was well known that she was the mistress of
the chief of the Dutch Cabinet.
Instead, her defence was undertaken voluntarily by a well-known French
advocate, Maître Clunet, who enjoyed a reputation as a legal scholar
that extended beyond the frontiers of his own country. Maître Clunet
asked to be entrusted with the defence of the spy. For personal reasons
he was judged to be the most suitable lawyer for the task; it was rare
for criminals of Mata Hari’s class to have such a highly qualified
advocate. He was a man of considerable charm of manner, an urbane
disposition, and was a venerable figure with his snow-white hair. The
medal of the 1870 campaign which he wore must have appealed to the
military men who formed the court and ensured for him the respect which
a veteran invariably receives from the younger men of his profession.
When Mata Hari was at the height of her beauty and power Maître Clunet
had fallen in love with her and for some time they had been on terms of
intimate friendship. Now at the age of seventy-five he was still under
the influence of this early infatuation. The story of their ill-omened
love-affair may be read in Charles Hirsch’s excellent romance, _La
chèvre aux pieds d’or_, where the story is sympathetically treated and
the noble character of the aged lawyer is shown to its fullest
advantage. Never for a single moment did Maître Clunet surrender the
belief that he could obtain the release of his client. He persisted in
this belief even when an impassioned appeal to his intimate personal
friend, President Poincaré, had failed, and, unfortunately, his fervid
advocacy finally reached the point when it furnished a ludicrous
anticlimax to the trial.
The Third Court-Martial sat in the Court of Assizes. The president was a
venerable warrior of some distinction, Colonel Sempron, formerly
commander of the Garde Républicaine. The sittings were held behind
closed doors, the delicate nature of the evidence making absolute
secrecy a necessity. Even the sentries set to guard the doors were not
permitted to approach nearer than ten paces. Only the members of the
court, the prosecutor, defender, one other officer, and the guard
accompanying the prisoner were admitted to the room in addition to the
witnesses. The “one other officer” was Major Massard, of the General
Staff, who was later charged with the sensational execution of the spy.
It is to him that we are largely indebted for these facts relating to
the trial given in his _Espionnes de Paris_, and it may be said that no
other authentic account of the evidence has been given because it
necessarily dealt with certain events upon which the French authorities
prefer to maintain silence. No secret service cares to expose its
methods. Then again, there were several people whose indiscretions did
not amount to treachery, but who were entangled in the skein of intrigue
and love-affairs and who are thus spared the humiliation inflicted upon
those who were associated with the spy’s life.
The maintenance of this secrecy ensured an absolute silence in the large
room. Indeed, the court with its dust-covered benches, intended to
accommodate a large audience, seemed strangely remote from the noises of
man’s world. It was as though the trial had been transported to the
realm of ideal justice. Into this silent chamber two gendarmes led their
prisoner to face the charge of intelligence with the enemy, which is the
legal expression for spying. Major Massard describes her on this
occasion as being rather tall and slender, her clear-cut face assuming a
sour and disagreeable expression when she was hard pressed, which
neutralized the effect of her regular features and the lovely
periwinkle-blue eyes, the eyes that were physically beautiful but
morally terrible. In her blue dress, cut to a low point, a coquettish
three-cornered hat of military cut, she lacked nothing of elegance, but,
what surprised the onlooker, this professional dancer was not remarkable
for grace. He describes her as German in manner as well as in heart. But
everyone who saw her was struck with the attitude of resolution with
which she faced her judges and the high intelligence which she displayed
during the course of the trial. She had a ready reply for every
question, denying only the motives ascribed to actions which she
admitted performing. When compared to Messalina she displayed no
umbrage; she gloried in her vice of passion. Closely adhering to the
accepted course of conduct popular with the spies of the time, she
boldly proclaimed her defence and stuck to it tenaciously. A courtesan,
yes; a spy, no. If she had been compelled to act suspiciously at times,
it was because she had to protect the identity of the men who entered
into relations with her. Mata Hari was not merely frank; she was proud
of her highly placed lovers and the generous manner in which they
treated her.
Addressing the officer-judges she told of visiting army manœuvres in
Silesia, France, and Italy in the company of high officers, perhaps with
the object of impressing the court with the importance of her friends as
compared with their own subordinate grades. But this professional pride
was misplaced. Army manœuvres are no place for a woman of refinement or
delicacy to go holiday-making, as these men very well knew.
“On the day war was declared,” said the president of the court, “you had
luncheon with the chief of police in Berlin and afterwards accompanied
him on a tour through the city, where you received the acclamations of
the crowd.”
“That is quite true,” admitted Mata Hari. She then gave the explanation
of her meeting with this official, who came to inspect her theatrical
costume which had been reported insufficient.
“Then a short while afterwards you entered the secret service. The chief
of that service sent you on a confidential mission to Paris, providing
you with 30,000 marks, and designating you with the symbol H21.”
“It is true,” the dancer conceded, “that I received a ‘baptismal’ name
by which I could correspond with my friend, and the sum you mention. But
those 30,000 marks were not my salary as a spy, they were the price of
my favours, for I was the mistress of the chief of the espionage
service.”
“Yes, we know that. But the officer appears to have been unusually
generous.”
“Thirty-thousand, generous! It was my price; my lovers never offered me
less.”
She was then asked about her journey to Paris and the reasons for it,
but she held to the story which she had given at the time to obtain her
passports, the need for removing her furniture from Neuilly. This was
interrupted by her journey to Vittel, where, she admitted, her residence
was purely private and had not been made necessary through service in a
hospital.
With these officers who were her judges Mata Hari frequently tried to
find a weak spot and to play on it. They were all soldiers, men who must
have been easily touched by this devotion to a victim of the war, and as
Frenchmen they could not fail to respond to her romantic renunciation of
a wasted life. This one true sensation of her heart’s love might have
gained sympathy had there been any supporting evidence to prove her
sincerity, but, the fortunate explanation of her residence in Vittel
having served its purpose, it was promptly abandoned. Neither Mata Hari
nor her defender made any effort to explain why she renounced this
laudable intention in favour of resuming her gay life. Such an omission
was a grave error, for it was pointed out that her departure from Vittel
corresponded with the completion of the two tasks she had been sent to
perform for the benefit of the German espionage service. Within that
fair bosom must have been a heart, resolute, indomitable, devoid of any
weak scruple.
On the subject of correspondence with the enemy she contradicted herself
as she did in private conversation in order to make her utterances suit
the various occasions. The president presented a terrible indictment of
her treachery at Vittel, charging her with communicating to Abteilung
III the intelligence which she had gathered from indiscreet officers,
concerning the dropping of French agents behind the German lines.
“It is true,” she admitted, “that I corresponded with my lover, who was
no longer in Berlin, but in Amsterdam. It was no fault of mine that he
was chief of the espionage department, but I did not communicate
anything to him.”
“When you were at the front you had knowledge of the preparations which
were being made for the offensive,” charged the president in a grave
tone.
“I knew from some of my officer friends that something was in course of
preparation, certainly. But even if I had wished I could not have
informed the Germans. I did not warn them because I could not.”
This was a strange statement after she had just admitted being in
correspondence with the head of the secret service in Amsterdam. But,
with her, duty and falsehood were synonymous; such irreconcilable
statements were not matters of consequence to her, and she appeared to
think that they should not have weighed with the judges.
Then the president, very grave now that he was approaching the fatal
proofs, questioned Mata Hari on her correspondence with her daughter
through the diplomatic mail of the neutral Legation.
“I have written, I admit it,” she says with candour, an admission that
any mother might be proud to make. “But I sent no information of
military matters.”
“We have proof to the contrary. We know also to whom you sent it.”
This was the first hint allowed to fall which indicated the full extent
of the Second Bureau’s knowledge of her activities. Mata Hari grew pale
and made no effort to insist upon her innocent intentions. Instead she
shifted her ground adroitly.
“Certainly, a woman of the theatres as I am cannot fail to attract
attention. It is natural. Some one must have been following me.”
Mata Hari was not easily disconcerted. In spite of the gravity of the
accusations brought against her she retained her serenity except on such
occasions as this, and then her replies had a touch of asperity, her
looks became harsh and distrustful, and her gestures too theatrical. But
on the whole she successfully maintained the character of her defence.
Only when some wholly unexpected revelation caused a momentary
consternation did she lose her studied pose. The moment when the
president revealed the secret of her correspondence was one when Mata
Hari was nonplussed and fenced wildly with her opponent.
She was next examined upon her reasons for volunteering to enter the
French secret service, and the replies at least show that she had no
scruple about betraying her friends, either French or German.
“There was nothing extraordinary in offering to be useful to France,”
she contended. “I was very well placed to do so with my useful
associations. Besides, I had no money.”
“Your German friends soon sent you 10,000 marks through the neutral
Legation,” suggested Lieutenant Mornay.
“That money was from my friend.”
Again it is worthy of comment that she can or cannot communicate with
her German lover, just as it suits the convenience of the moment. In
making this sharp retort to the president of the court Mata Hari
betrayed signs of anger. Perhaps it was because a moment earlier she had
boasted that this man never offered her less than 30,000 marks.
“From your friend, the head of the espionage service,” was Mornay’s dry
comment. “Finally, you became a spy in the service of France. What did
you do?”
“I gave information to the chief of the Second Bureau concerning the
places on the Moroccan coast where submarines landed arms, information
that was very useful and very important....”
“And where did you obtain that information?” asked the president. “If it
was correct it shows that you were in direct communication with the
enemy; if it was false, you were deceiving us.”
This time the dancer was completely disconcerted. In trying to explain
the inexplicable she stammered inconclusive suggestions. She had heard
about it at a diplomatic dinner where she was dancing, but she could not
say where it was nor who had inadvertently betrayed this important
confidential information, which most certainly should not have been
known to any neutral diplomatist in Paris. Realizing that her perplexity
and evasions were creating a bad impression, Mata Hari lost her temper
again. Flushed with anger, she flashed back at Colonel Sempron:
“After all, I did what I could for France. My information was good.... I
am not French.... I owe you nothing.... You are only trying to confuse
me.... I am only a poor woman, and for officers you are lacking in
gallantry.”
Mornay bowed gravely to the accused and murmured, “Madame must forgive
us; we are only defending our country.”
The dancer was obviously disquieted by this shrewd attack, but after a
moment’s reflection she tried to dissimulate her unrest by arrogantly
retorting:
“I am neither French nor German, but belong to a neutral country. You
are persecuting me, you are unjust, and, I repeat, you are not gallant.”
She regarded Mornay for a moment while her lips curled with scorn before
saying, bitterly, “Oh, but that man is horrid.”
“Calm yourself, madame,” Colonel Sempron suggested, and having given the
accused time to recover her composure, he continued: “Captain Ledoux
gave you a document which you were to carry to one of our agents in
Belgium. What did you do with that paper?”
The accused did not answer.
The president pressed for a reply: “Do you recall to what use you put
the paper confided to you for transmission to our agent?”
“No,” was the dull response.
One of the members of the court-martial says that he does not think Mata
Hari had fully recognized her danger until the moment when this
reluctant monosyllable was forced from her lips.
That seems quite probable, for the spy must have seen that a great pit
was opening at her feet. It will strike the reader that it is
inconceivable that an accomplished spy should be unprepared for this
emergency. Her entire conduct over the abortive mission to Belgium is
incomprehensible without the full knowledge of her subsequent activity.
The truth is that Mata Hari was placed in an exceedingly difficult
position. Had she sought the assistance of the French military mission
in London when her further progress was checked, she must have been
required to produce the document she was carrying as proof of her good
faith; the Second Bureau should have had that paper restored to them
when her mission had failed. The absolute necessity of preserving intact
such an important paper as a list of spies operating in a foreign
country is too obvious to merit emphasis. Unhappily for her, we know
that she had dispatched this precious document to the German officials
in Amsterdam before she left France, and the French secret service knew
that it had passed out of her possession. It was for this reason that
they had recommended her to apply to the French mission in London if she
should desire assistance, knowing all the while that she lacked the
proof of her identity as a French agent.
Had Mata Hari claimed any recollection of disposing of this paper she
would have been immediately involved in a terribly tortuous path of
untruth to explain why she had not used it to identify herself in
London. Complete loss of memory was the only defence, inadequate as it
was. Mata Hari, then, denied knowledge of the precious document
committed to her charge. The president proceeded to enlighten her.
“That agent to whom you had to report was arrested in Brussels by the
Germans, and three weeks after your departure from Paris he was shot.”
It is obvious that at this stage of the examination the judges must have
reached a reasonably sure belief that Mata Hari was guilty of the charge
brought against her. To increase their conviction they now witnessed the
complete overthrow of her assurance. They saw her hesitations, her
stammered replies, her loss of confidence, as the president and the
relentless Mornay sought to wring the truth from her. In spite of all
their efforts, however, it was not possible to extract any confession.
Beyond a refusal to recall what she had done with this paper she could
not be induced to go.
Then they questioned her about her stay in Madrid.
“In Madrid you occupied the room next to that of the chief of the
espionage service in that city.”
“That is so,” she acknowledged.
“This agent from Berlin paid you frequent visits?”
“That also is true.”
“Did you receive gifts from him?”
“Certainly. He was my lover.”
She was on surer ground now.
“You know and we know that your messages to your German lover in
Amsterdam were signed by the spy-signature H21.”
“That is not correct,” was the quick retort. It will be recalled that
Mata Hari had already admitted that she used this symbol so that she
could communicate with this man who, “through no fault” of hers, was
head of an espionage department.
“Pardon me, madame, it is correct and the proof of it is in the telegram
which the German agent in Madrid sent to his colleague in Amsterdam
asking for money to be paid to H21 through the Ministry of a neutral
country.”
This was the only time when Mata Hari came near to a complete breakdown.
The knowledge that the French were aware of the existence of this
telegram caused the bold front to collapse. The woman who had been
imperturbable through a severe examination became a frightened creature
with haggard eyes and tightened lips from which words came shrilly and
brokenly. She floundered pitifully. Maître Clunet felt compelled to
interpose to rescue his client.
“All that proves nothing,” objected the venerable lawyer, frightened by
the effect of this blow on his old lover.
“I tell you ... I ... It was for ... it was to pay for our intimacy. It
is ... it is my price.... Oh, you gentlemen of France, believe me! Be
gallant!”
Maître Clunet became alarmed at the state of his trembling client, and
the poor man, forgetting his function as defender of an accused spy,
became once again the loving protector of a lovely woman threatened with
disaster. He solicitously offered her a bottle of smelling-salts and a
box of chocolates which he had thoughtfully provided in his distracted
efforts to offer her consolation.
“I have no need of those,” cried Mata Hari, harshly, in repulsing him.
“I am not a child. I shall be brave.”
Then she faced the court defiantly.
“You cannot deny,” said the president when she was somewhat recovered,
“that you went to the Legation and collected the sum which Lieutenant
von Kroon had promised you.”
“What is the use of denying it?” answered the accused, recovering her
composure when on the more familiar ground of a much-loved artist.
“Lieutenant von Kroon did not wish to pay for my caresses with his own
money; he found it more convenient to pay in the money of his
government.”
“The court will accept that statement for what it is worth,” commented
Colonel Sempron, drily. “You acknowledge that the money came from the
chief of the German espionage service in Holland?”
“Certainly. The money came from my lover in Holland, who paid, without
knowing it, the debts of my lover in Spain.”
Maître Clunet was much disturbed over these inaccurate replies. As a
lawyer he was conscious of the irreconcilable replies Mata Hari was
giving in her efforts to extricate herself from the impasse into which
she had been driven. How to reconcile her declaration that von Kroon was
paying his debts with government money with that in which she said that
her German lover was paying for the pleasantries of his colleague in
Spain? The court closed its first session at this stage. During the
recess the old advocate who was protecting his lover went about trying
to find how his case stood in the eyes of those who had heard it. The
prospect was bad. But he did not lose courage. When Major Massard was
invited to give an opinion he said, brusquely:
“I think she is nothing but a clever hussy and that she is done for.”
The lawyer would not confess defeat. He never lacked confidence until
the bitter end.
“Wait,” he said—“wait until you have heard the witnesses I shall call.
But wait most especially for my address to the court.”