those one or two deviations from her haughty air and that moment when
she almost collapsed when the president of the court revealed the extent
of the Second Bureau’s knowledge of her activities. As each successive
blow fell upon her head the lawyer would turn upon her the eyes of a
faithful but powerless friend, as though apologizing for his lack of
influence to save her pain. The accused merely shrugged her shoulders
and pouted with annoyance. On the other hand, she was lavish with
amiable words and provoking glances for the benefit of the two simple
gendarmes who guarded her.
When the court reassembled to hear her defence and Mata Hari heard that
some of her influential friends had acceded to her request to give
evidence on her behalf, she gaily resumed all her coquettish art. Having
taken her place at the bar, she energetically wielded a lipstick,
powdered herself, joyfully accepted a small bouquet from the adoring
advocate, and decorated her corsage with a flower. She was happy and
smiling again, nourishing some secret hope. If Maître Clunet had
discussed the case with her during the recess it is certain that he had
imparted his own optimism to the client. The discarded chocolates were
produced and the accused munched contentedly. All the ravishing glances
of which she was capable were launched against the judges as they took
their seats, it is even insinuated that at an unguarded moment she
smiled brightly upon the terrible Mornay.
And the witnesses?
The first was he who had been her first lover when she came to France,
Jules Cambon the chief of the permanent staff of the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs. He was a typical diplomatist, suave, confident, and
distinguished, but for the moment so embarrassed that, in addressing
him, Mata Hari did so with averted eyes so that she might spare him
further discomfort.
“Why have you called this witness?” asked the presiding officer.
Without moving, without looking at the witness, Mata Hari said in her
alluring low voice:
“Monsieur occupies one of the highest offices in France. He is
acquainted with all the intentions of government and with the projected
military operations. After my return from Madrid I met him again. He was
my first friend after I was divorced and it was only natural that I
should meet him again with joy. We passed three days and nights
together. Today I have but one question to ask him: Did I at any time
enquire for information, have I ever profited from our intimacy to
extract from him any secret?”
“Madame never put to me any such question,” answered the witness.
“You see,” interrupted the impassioned defence lawyer, “she is no spy.
Had she wished to gather precious information she had but to reach out
her hand.”
“Then what did you find to talk about for three whole days?” asked the
somewhat incredulous president. “When the nation is at open war did you
not even mention the subject which occupies every heart and mind? That
is unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable but, nevertheless, true. We spoke about art—Indian art.”
A gleam of hope flashed across the eyes of the accused, who got
consolation from this statement which did little credit to the sense of
responsibility in a man who had now been nominated to the post of
ambassador.
“Let us admit that,” said Mornay. “But you will acknowledge that the
accused is intelligent enough to recognize that it is not so easy to
lead by the nose an important diplomatist as it is to manage young
officers who are drunk with love and kisses and incapable of refusing
anything to an illustrious artist. You must acknowledge that her ability
to approach such a high official gave the accused great credit with the
_Boches_. It has been said that some of the paper on which Mata Hari
wrote to her friends in Madrid and Amsterdam was headed ‘Ministry of
Foreign Affairs—Office of the Minister.’ There is no doubt that this
important association was the means of obtaining for her the very high
payment she received. By exhibiting herself to other spies in the
company of the illustrious statesman who appears at the bar she
surrounded herself with an aureole of power which allowed her to be more
exacting.”
When asked if he had anything to add to his statement, the witness
replied, “Nothing has arisen to alter my good opinion of the lady.”
Nevertheless, his relief at being released from further examination was
obvious. His face had grown pale as Mornay began to speak, as though he
feared pressure on other matters not altogether related to his
affectionate regard for his friend. He was still a gentleman, however,
for as he left the witness stand the ambassador bowed in his stately way
to the delighted dancer, whose face, it is said, bore the unmistakable
expression of pride which might have been forgiven any young lady who
was modestly acknowledging that she had “landed” an ambassador.
The next evidence was productive of a characteristic incident. General
Messimy, the former Minister of War, had been one of the numerous
victims who succumbed to the lure of the Red Dancer. He was no longer
Minister. His duty as a local commander kept him on the scene of
operations, so that his evidence took the form of a sworn statement
which declared that the accused had never asked questions relating to
the conduct of the war nor had ever addressed to him an enquiry which
could have aroused suspicion. The president of the court was then about
to read a letter which he held in his hand, when Mata Hari leaped to her
feet with a startled exclamation:
“Do not read that letter, _Monsieur le colonel_.”
“I must do so,” he protested.
“Then I beg you not to make known the name of the writer,” she
persisted.
“And why not?”
“Because the writer is married and I have no wish to be the cause of a
drama in a virtuous family. Do not pronounce the name, I beg of you.”
The colonel was an old colleague of General Messimy, he was something of
a family friend, and he would gladly have spared a former Minister the
humiliation of associating his name with a letter which, as evidence,
could only have been of value in a breach-of-promise case. The old
general had written of his deep love and of intimate things with the
gusto and abandon of a young man enduring the transports of first love.
But as Colonel Sempron hesitated, another member of the court rose in
his seat and requested that the letter be read in full, together with
the writer’s name. Reminded of his duty, the colonel began to read, and
Mata Hari relinquished her protest with a little pout of
dissatisfaction. Until the presiding officer read the signature of the
letter none of the other members of the court had apparently known of
the liaison between their former chief and the dancer, for the
revelation caused them to regard one another with looks of stupefaction.
The former Minister of War! The old dugout who had frustrated plans of
abler men and who had been kicked out of office to make way for a more
intelligent and active soldier, had been carrying on an intrigue with
one of the enemy’s agents! These irreverent young officers could not
wholly conceal their glee at the astounding announcement. But Mata Hari
had felt that General Messimy’s name would impress them and his evidence
remedy the unpleasant effect of the ambassador’s testimony. When she saw
the smiles of amusement on the faces of her judges she could not refrain
from a petulant outburst which betrayed her annoyance.
“You are very indiscreet, messieurs.”
“It is to be understood, then, that you never spoke of the war to the
Minister?”
“Never,” was the emphatic reply.
This was the last of the influential men who bore testimony to her
character; the remainder of the witnesses were domestics who spoke
feelingly of her customary kindness and charity, declaring for the most
part that it was inconceivable that a woman of such kindness of heart
could have engaged in the vile practice of spying. Before leaving the
high officials, however, let us say that it was clear that they had not
been engaged in treacherous acts either by intent or otherwise.
Indiscreet, infatuated, foolish they may have been, but not to the
extent of having engaged in a conspiracy against their country. But, as
Mornay suggested, it is impossible to deny that their friendship had
been of incalculable value to the spy. During the course of little more
than a year it is known that Mata Hari received between $12,000 and
$15,000 for her services to Abteilung III. When one recalls the
pitifully small sums paid to other agents, this was royal compensation
and shows the value of her labour on behalf of the enemy.
The appearance of the ambassador and the evidence of the former Minister
had done nothing to strengthen the case in Mata Hari’s favour. The old
advocate then declared the case closed and began his address. What he
said has never been divulged. Only a few indications of the impassioned
nature of his speech for the defence have leaked out from that silent
grey room. The evidence presented by the commissioner for the government
was irrefutable. Naturally it has been impossible to reproduce here all
the evidence which was laid before the court. Much of it will never be
made public, at least during the present generation, because
reputations, both national and individual, were jeopardized. The Second
Bureau have their own reasons for reticence, and state reasons have made
it imperative not to reveal the whole mass of evidence which was
accumulated against this dangerous woman.
The line of defence adopted by the incontestably great master of the bar
was not convincing. He alone seems to have preserved an inflexible
assurance that his client was innocent and to have hoped, by eloquently
expressing his conviction, to convey the same impression to others. To
parade her lovers in order to obtain a reluctant confession of their
failure to resist the charms of the Circe was not a convincing manner to
rebut the incriminating knowledge marshalled by the implacable Mornay.
Mata Hari had been notorious in Paris for many years, and to be known
and recognized in that city is to be exposed to the malicious gossip of
the most brilliant and most pitiless press of the world. The weekly
journals, notably the _Cri de Paris_, had frequently commented upon her
love-affairs, delighting in mocking each new victim of her charms as he
was discarded in favour of a successful rival. The old lawyer, who
preserved the memory of her charm and perfidy, was chivalrous enough to
protect her with his eloquence. His devotion was worthy of a better
cause. So hopelessly weak was the case that it illustrates the inability
of indubitably meritorious advocacy without good material to support it.
We repeat, in his final plea Maître Clunet was unconvincing. He barely
touched upon the nature of the evidence, confining himself to a moving
appeal on behalf of a woman who had sacrificed her beauty, her talents,
and her art to the cultivation of vice and crime. He pictured her
unhappy married life, the persecution by a wretched husband, and her
efforts to obtain a living by her art with all the forceful presentation
of an eloquence which had commanded admiration for twenty years. But the
defects of the woman could not mitigate the guilt of the spy. In this
case to know all was not to forgive all, as the advocate hoped. The
effect of his long plea on those who heard it was most clearly defined
upon the subject of his address. The accused composed herself, face and
figure, in a theatrical attitude when the lawyer reached the highest
flight of his fervent oratory. In this final act of the drama she
skilfully displayed all the strange charm which had made men her foolish
slaves; she ceased to be the accused struggling to prove her innocence,
in order to become a fascinating woman and a talented artist.
“Have you anything to add to your defence?” asked the presiding officer
when the address was finished.
“Nothing. My advocate has told you the truth,” she replied. “I am not
French. I have the right to have friends in other countries, even among
those at war with France. I have remained neutral. I count upon the
goodness of heart of you French officers.”
The advocate was so touched by the moving effect of this simple
statement that he effusively seized her hand and expressed his
admiration.
The case was complete, the members of the court filed out to the
retiring-room where they were to discuss their verdict. Mata Hari was
not present at this consultation. After an absence of ten minutes they
were ready with their decision. To each officer in turn, beginning with
the youngest, lest his opinion be influenced by the example of his
seniors, the president addressed the question:
“In your soul and in your conscience are you convinced that this woman
is guilty of having communicated information and documents to the enemy,
and of having caused the death of many of our soldiers?”
Very calmly and without hesitation each officer replied, “Yes.”
As the members of the court signed the judgment, one of them threw down
the pen and exclaimed, passionately:
“It is horrible to condemn to death, in the possession of all her beauty
and charm, a creature who is so seductive and of such fine intelligence.
But her treacherous intrigues have caused such calamities that, if it
lay within my power, I would have her shot a dozen times.”
It is not customary in a French court-martial to have the verdict
announced to the prisoner by the court. That is done by a court
attendant. The old lawyer’s training had enabled him to grasp the
attitude of the judges toward his client when they left to consider
their verdict, and he cautioned Mata Hari that she must be prepared for
the worst. When at last the little ceremony of reading the sentence was
carried out, Maître Clunet wept unashamed. The guard was called out and
Mata Hari set before them.
“Judgment in the name of the French people!” cried the official, using
the time-honoured formula.
“Present arms!”
As the sentence of death was read to her in the fading light of a
pleasant June evening did the Red Dancer hear, from the shades of
desolation and terror, the ghostly tread of marching feet as a phantom
army paraded, that army which had gone loyally to its death at her
behest, while she, in listless ease, lingered among the garlands of
flowers in the rooms of her wealthy adorers? At the rattle of arms
brought briskly to the salute, breaking the solemn warm stillness of the
late afternoon, did she recall the sight of thousands of troops saluting
her royal lover as she stepped from her carriage on his arm? Then must
she have thought of the serried ranks which soon might salute her soul
as it sped to Siva’s hell, their vengeance at last achieved.
It was a pathetic scene. The old advocate, defeated in his most delicate
case, stood with tears streaming from his weakening eyes. And Mata Hari?
Does she cry aloud or faint or betray any signs of feminine weakness?
Silent, serene, almost indifferent, she listened to the crisp sentence
of the official who read her death warrant. An enigmatic smile played
about the sensuous lips until the words had ceased, and then, realizing
that she was about to die, she turned away, nervously biting her lips.
“My God! she knows how to die, that one!” was the admiring comment of an
old soldier of the guard.
_Chapter Sixteen_
Cell No. 12 at the prison of Saint-Lazare, which Mata Hari occupied, had
acquired a certain notoriety in French criminal records. Mme. Steinheil
and Mme. Caillaux had previously been tenants. It is a large room with
two windows and three beds, one for the prisoner and two for the
religious Sisters whose duty it was to guard her. None of the
distinguished occupants of the cell brought to it one half the romance
that Mata Hari invested in that drab interior. Almost from the moment
she entered the cell there were sinister rumours of the contemplated
efforts of either her admirers or her secret-service colleagues to
secure her escape if the imposing list of her notable lovers failed to
move the President to act within his powers of clemency. It is possible
to see in Mata Hari’s conduct during her imprisonment a firm conviction
that some power, working outside the gaol, would bring about a
mitigation of the death penalty.
During the trial she had succeeded in preserving a courageous exterior
which had surprised and impressed those who witnessed it; secretly she
was haunted by the fear of death. In spite of her uttered words, which
were but a faint echo of the pessimistic philosophy that despises life,
the awful consequences of an adverse judgment shook the very foundations
of her faith. Her outer courage was based upon an unwavering faith in
the legion of admiring friends whipped up by her adoring advocate, who
never for one moment doubted his ability to organize a mass of
influential opinion strong enough to secure a revocation of the sentence
of death. This steadfast devotion to a wisp of hope never left either
the condemned or her defender. Presently we shall see something of the
methods instituted to obtain her release, but let us for the moment
consider the testimony of a man who had the Red Dancer under close
observation during the time of her imprisonment.
Dr. Bralez, the assistant prison doctor, says of her:
“If you ask whether I thought her guilty, I should be compelled to
answer ‘Yes, against my will.’ It does not seem logical to me that a
creature of her nature, with her pride, her imagination, her love of
art, her beauty, her culture, and her contempt for money could debase
herself to the point of seducing drunken aviators to betray secrets of
military importance. However, there is no doubt that the evidence before
the court-martial was too strong for her defence. I recall paying her a
visit on the day the death sentence was read to her. I can assure you
that her calm, her indifference, amazed me. Had I been her confessor I
should have been tempted to sound the depths of her soul and offer her
the consolation of faith, but my rôle was merely that of medical adviser
and for that reason I was compelled to maintain a reserved attitude.”
Mata Hari’s only request was for some veronal to enable her to sleep,
but this the doctor had to refuse, and two days later he was surprised
to observe that she had no need for the drug, for her nights were no
longer disturbed by the perspective of a sinister termination to the
tragedy in which she was compromised. Dr. Bralez repudiates the
statement that she was like a caged panther; he protested that there was
nothing cruel about her, although she loved to surround herself with an
atmosphere of savage instinct. Nevertheless, this opinion was very
different from that formed by the Sisters of Mercy who were her
guardians. In the early days of her prison life they found Mata Hari
intractable, imperious, excited, feverish, full of the craziest notions
for indulging her luxury-softened body. Not only was her temper violent,
but her demands for ministering to her personal service were absurd. She
demanded maids to attend to her toilette; at one time she insisted upon
having a daily bath in milk when it was almost impossible to obtain that
precious fluid for the young babies in Paris. But that was a detail when
her own comfort was concerned.
Later she became more tractable and reasonable. This was when her
friends were occupied with the efforts to secure her release or at least
a mitigation of the sentence. Maître Clunet was the main prop of her
earlier hopes, although, as we shall see, not the only one. He had two
sources from which he drew an inexhaustible supply of hope with which he
nourished Mata Hari’s emotions. Fear of a criminal’s death compelled her
to hope. Doubtless her fervid imagination had pictured some romantic
tragedy which would provide a fitting climax to a life filled with the
dramatic, whereas the prospect of a judicial execution is shorn of any
impressive details upon which the romantic mind can feed. The first
instrument that the lawyer employed was an imposing array of powerful
friends who were marshalled behind an appeal for clemency. Her royal
lovers, the great officials, artists who failed to understand why crimes
against humanity could possibly weigh against the divinity of inspired
art, scholars whose imaginations dominated their intellects—all
responded to the invitation to sign a plea for mercy. Her love-affairs
organized themselves into a procession to plead against her condemnation
as a spy.
But there were some notable omissions from the list of advocates for
mercy. In spite of the strong persuasion of her consort, himself a
German princeling, Queen Wilhelmina of Holland refused to do for her own
subject what she did so willingly for Miss Edith Cavell. Other
signatories to the petition for the English nurse who declined to
subscribe to the plea for Mata Hari were His Holiness the Pope, King
Alfonso, and the head of the American mission.
After having enjoyed the distinction of royal favours granted by the
Prussian Crown Prince and after the Duke of Brunswick had showered gold
upon her, Mata Hari, temporarily, as was her custom, bestowed her
affections upon the head of the council of her own country, Van der
Linden, who addressed an eloquent plea on behalf of his distressed
mistress to President Poincaré. When this was rejected he heaped insult
after insult upon the French people, calling them savages and barbarians
for proposing to execute the talented artist whose companionship he had
enjoyed. These protests, coming from a Dutch source, provoked many a
grim smile in France, but the insults made but little impression. Had
Van der Linden made some effort to check the audacity of the innumerable
German secret-service agents operating in his country, the effect of his
plea might have been different.
The second hope upon which Maître Clunet’s activities were directed,
should the first fail, was his personal friendship for the most powerful
friend he had, the President. We do not pretend to know what transpired
between the President and the lawyer at their interview. The only thing
that is known is that President Poincaré had to listen to an eloquent
petition made the more moving by the obvious sincerity of the man whose
great intellect was for the time being completely absorbed with the
object of his former love. It has been said on good authority that the
dramatically powerful interview recorded in Hirsch’s _La chèvre aux
pieds d’or_ is substantially a correct reproduction of what took place.
But if Maître Clunet’s attitude leaves any room for doubt, that of the
President must have been crystal clear. Owing to the genial ineptitude
of M. Malvy’s administration in office during the first two years of
war, the soil of France had produced a crop of conspiracies amounting in
substance to a state of internal corruption from which few modern
democracies could have emerged without being shattered to their very
foundations. Within a few months were uncovered the Invalides plot, the
Bonnet Rouge crimes, the mysterious death of Almereyda before his
treacherous conspiracy of defeatism could be properly investigated, the
corruption of Paul Bolo, the condemnation of Lenoir and Duval, and the
prosecution of too many spies to leave any doubt that Paris was riddled
by enemy agents working with impunity. With such an accumulation of
villainies threatening the commonweal, could any guilty person who fell
into the hands of outraged military justice have any reasonable hope of
justice outside the letter of the law? Would any President have dared to
inflame public spirit when it was clamouring to have its social
structure purged of all Defeatist elements and all cosmopolitan
parasites destroying the security of France, by exercising his
prerogative of clemency in favour of a woman who had sent thousands of
French soldiers to their deaths and who still remained proudly
unrepentant if not actually proud of her infamy?