cherished hopes of intervention from the outside in spite of all. Public
spirit in France was violently inflamed against Mata Hari, more so than
against any other spy seized during the war, but the existence of an
universal horror against her in no way affected her high hopes of
release. The average Frenchman was firmly convinced that the spy had so
earned the gratitude of her employers that they would not discard her,
that some vigorous effort would be attempted to free her from the
prison, and there was undoubtedly good grounds for this belief as the
civil police became more and more anxious about the safety of their
prisoner. This anxiety culminated on the morning of her execution,
although the story, such as it is, was not known until after the event,
and so fitted into the circumstances that to this day many people find
ample evidence of the success of those audacious individuals who had
accepted the task of liberating her.
The common supposition that the attempt at rescue would be made by some
of the German secret agents proved wrong. The honour of having provided
the most sensational story of her rescue is given to a man who has been
called Pierre de Mortissac, the degenerate son of a noble house who
dissipated a fortune in his own amusement and in an unsuccessful attempt
to steal Mata Hari’s love from her German lover. All that is known of de
Mortissac is that he went through life in a series of romantic
love-affairs involving the elopement of a Russian princess, the suicide
of an Englishwoman of noble family, and with numerous less distinguished
victims until he fell in love with Mata Hari. For years he is supposed
to have spent his life in defending himself against the bitter jealousy
of the German lover, who employed several desperadoes to interfere at
every turn with the happiness of his rival. It is also said that this de
Mortissac tried ineffectually to induce Mata Hari to give up her
dangerous work. His biographer states that it was through this man that
she left Spain to come to Paris, where his influence was to have been
used to gain a pardon for her, but that the Second Bureau were too quick
to act and all that was left for the faithful lover was a sensational
attempt at rescue. The plot has not the merit of originality. It was
borrowed wholesale from Sardou’s melodrama, made famous in the opera,
“Tosca.” Here, it will be recalled, it was arranged that the bullets
should be extracted from the firing-squad’s rifles, so that the hero
would then not only feign death, but would be rescued by the devotion of
his lover. Something of the same thing was to be attempted in Mata
Hari’s case. Arrangements were made to deal with every situation as it
arose on the fatal morning.
Not only had the officer in charge of the firing-squad been bribed to
use blank cartridges, but the gendarmes responsible for pinioning Mata
Hari’s arms were also bribed to fasten the cords so lightly that her
body could sink to the ground when the shots were fired. A French
military execution is the occasion for much ceremony. There is a large
parade of soldiers, whose duty it is to march past the dead traitor
after the execution, and it was felt that if Mata Hari were fastened
securely to the stake she could not successfully feign death before all
those eyes. Therefore, she had to fall with her face averted. Then
arrangements had to be made to make the coffin admit enough air to keep
her reasonably comfortable after the ceremony and the grave had to be
dug shallow enough to prevent so much earth being thrown on the coffin
that the occupant would suffocate. All these details are important in
view of what happened later. For the moment they are offered to explain
why many people still find in Mata Hari’s amazing composure the strong
underlying conviction that all she had to do was to play a part as
though the turf on the rifle-range at Vincennes was the stageboards of
the familiar Olympia, and her death a childish deception.
As the days sped on Mata Hari had as sole comfort the daily visits of
the young prison doctor, on whom she still practised her arts of
fascination, and the equally regular visits of her old friend and
advocate, always laden with delicacies, gossip, and perennial hope. On
the eve of the day fixed for her execution the advocate failed to
appear. He was absent, making his final but unsuccessful appeal to the
President to remit the death penalty. This defection afflicted Mata Hari
as a gloomy presentiment of evil, for the old man had assured her that
he would certainly appear that day with the cheering news that his old
and powerful friend had listened sympathetically to the tragic story of
her sad, misguided, and misunderstood life. Her distress was apparent to
the Sisters of Mercy who attended her. At first Mata Hari regarded these
two nuns with marked hostility. The presence of the two simple souls,
devoid of all vanity and show, was an offence to her more fastidious
tastes in companions. She mocked them for their simplicity in that
manner of all beautiful women who find an endless source of humour in
poverty, physical ugliness, and honesty. For a long time the accused
woman had refused to accept the trifling offer of comfort from the two
Sisters, but slowly her resistance broke down before the unfailing
goodnature and kind heart of the sparkling-eyed Sister Leonide.
Seeing her deep gloom on the day when Maître Clunet failed to bring his
daily measure of cheerful gossip and hope, Sister Leonide, with a shrewd
knowledge of the dancer’s vanity, approached her with a singular
suggestion:
“You have got to save yourself from this fit of black despair,” she
said. “Why don’t you dance? You will forget all your art and, besides,
you have never given us an exhibition of your talents.”
And in the condemned cell, with no other audience than the two nuns,
Mata Hari danced!
The action was sufficient to restore her equanimity. The despondency to
which she had succumbed vanished like magic and she prattled gaily. If
the advocate failed her there was still a mysterious power hovering over
her destiny which supported her profound faith in herself.
The incidents in cell No. 12 on the fatal morning have been described so
many times with fanciful additions that we will rely upon the evidence
of the two eye-witnesses whose evidence most nearly corresponds. The
actual moment for the execution had been fixed for 5.47 A.M. An hour
before this time the officials charged with the execution collected at
the prison to carry out their unpleasant task.
“She is asleep,” said the warden when formal application was made for
her surrender to the military authorities.
The officials were unexpectedly joined by one visitor from whose company
they had wished to be spared. It was the venerable old man who had
steadfastly fought for the spy’s release, but who now brought a fresh
weapon for the consternation of the already harassed officials. Reports
and rumours of an attempt at rescue on the way to Vincennes worried
them. The guards were strengthened to reduce the chance of any desperate
action on the part of either the German agents or the mythical lover.
Perhaps Maître Clunet could enlighten them upon the situation. Those
charged with the execution of Mata Hari had a great sympathy for the
respected old lawyer, whose conduct during the trying time had not
caused any of them to forfeit their affection for him, but, knowing his
profound attachment to the accused woman, they feared his deep emotions
might lead to some scene of tragic despair if he witnessed the morbid
details of her death.
“Maître Clunet, we have heard unpleasant reports,” said the senior
officer of the party. “Can you tell us whether you have heard any
suggestion that an effort will be made to rescue Mata Hari this
morning?”
“No, I have heard nothing, but——”
“On your word of honour, you have heard nothing?”
“On my honour,” declared the old man, emphatically. “I have not
hesitated to use all the legal resources at my command, but I would have
nothing to do with any illegal effort to release the prisoner. I still
rely on the law. Gentlemen, Mata Hari cannot be executed this morning. I
formally oppose any such action and invoke Article 27 of the Penal Code,
Book 1, Chapter I.”
Maître Clunet’s announcement, supported by the quotation of a fearsome
legal instrument, caused consternation. So this was the opening phase of
the attempt to rescue Mata Hari at the last minute. These officers were
soldiers and not lawyers who understood legal forms and authorities. A
lawyer had to explain (imagine the scene of these astounded officials
excitedly demanding proof at that early hour of the morning!) that the
clause of the “Code” which was invoked provides that a woman expecting
to give birth to a child might not be executed. The group of soldiers
regarded the triumphant lawyer with looks of blank dismay. Justice,
after so many delays, was foiled. The inexorable Second Bureau had been
outwitted by the country’s laws.
“It is impossible. No man has visited the accused in her cell,”
protested the prison warden, who was responsible under this grave
accusation.
“Suppose it was I,” cried the gallant old man, “I have visited her.”
“What, at your age?” demanded Mornay, cross as the devil at being
dragged from a warm bed so early in the day to answer crazy legal
conundrums. “Why, you must be at least seventy-five!”
“No matter what my age is, I invoke Article 27 of the Penal Code and you
cannot execute Mata Hari this morning.”
Still uneasy in spite of Mornay’s confident attitude, the tragic
procession trudged down the corridor, lighted only by a flickering
gas-jet, and echoing to the heavy tread of soldiers’ feet. Behind the
fatal door lay a human creature in peaceful slumber, dreaming of
deliverance and false hopes of happiness deferred.
To awaken her abruptly from these cherished visions of liberty and love
to the sight of the doorway filled with the figures of those who had
come in the name of 50,000 dead to demand vengeance, was to expose her
to merciless anguish. The pitiless betrayal of their comrades, the
little nameless graves surmounted by a tattered _poilu’s_ cap, the cries
of the wounded, the tears of the orphans were momentarily forgotten in
the wish of those gallant French officers to spare their victim any
unnecessary suffering. Everyone was asked to make as much noise as
possible so that the prisoner might be awake at the time of their
arrival at the door of her cell and might have had the opportunity to
compose herself for their reception. Her visitors knew of her
temperamental outbursts and feared a more than usually severe attack at
this moment of crisis. But when the door was opened the two guardians
were found to be sitting up in their beds, rubbing slumber from their
eyes, while the prisoner was still sleeping peacefully. They had to
shake her gently to inform her that the advocate’s plea for a remission
of sentence had been denied and that she was to die that morning.
“What? It is not possible, it cannot be possible,” was all that she
could say, believing in her heart that she was speaking the truth.
Then she was told that if she could prove what Maître Clunet had
suggested, that she was an expectant mother, her life would be spared,
but that she must subject herself to a medical examination. Mata Hari
burst into laughter. Recognizing her acquaintance, Dr. Bralez, she
hastily wrapped a peignoir about her nakedness, for she was, as usual,
insufficiently clad for these ceremonies, and, approaching him,
whispered:
“Did you hear that? Old Maître Clunet says if I avail myself of Article
something or other of an old Code which forbids the execution of a woman
about to be a mother, I can be saved. Isn’t he an excruciatingly funny
old dear?”
She laughed readily and naturally at the absurdity of the advocate’s
suggestion to save her life, and then with a gesture, not devoid of
dignity, she dismissed the idea and refused to be examined by the
doctor, declaring that Maître Clunet was under a misapprehension
inspired by his devotion to her interests, and that her health was
excellent. She then asked that the visitors might withdraw so that she
could complete dressing and prepare herself for the ceremony in which
she was cast to play the principal rôle. As the men were retiring from
the cell the condemned woman called to Dr. Bralez and asked to have his
company, which she preferred to that of the more sedate nuns.
The officials then retired and began again to question Maître Clunet
about this threatened attempt to rescue the prisoner, but he could shed
no light on the matter and surrendered himself to the horribly
inevitable. Inside the cell Mata Hari carried on a running commentary on
the proceedings while completing her preparations.
“You saw how those gentlemen were afraid to find me in tears or to hear
my sobs?” she said to Dr. Bralez, as she leisurely dressed as though she
had no more serious business on hand that morning than a series of
social visits. “You heard how they recommended me to be brave? If only
they knew how well I have slept.... Any other day I would not have
forgiven them for having awakened me at such an early hour.
“What is the object of executing prisoners at dawn? In India it is not
so; they are more reasonable. There, death is a penalty that is made a
ceremony to be celebrated in full daylight, before crowds of guests
decorated with sweet-scented jasmine. I would much prefer to have gone
to Vincennes in the middle of the afternoon after having had a good
luncheon with some friends. All the same, I do not think they would want
to have me shot with an empty stomach. What do you recommend?”
“A cordial,” suggested the good Sister Leonide.
“A glass of rum,” is the doctor’s prescription, for by law the condemned
is thoughtfully provided with this fortifying liquor and, if desired, a
soothing cigarette.
“That’s it, give me a glass of grog.”
As the spy sipped the rum and sweetened water supplied her she enquired
about the weather. She was told that it was a beautiful morning.
“In that case you must give me the beige cloak I was wearing when I came
here,” she said to the two nuns.
Mata Hari had now relinquished all hope of delivery from her execution
except what might be possible through the agency of the mysterious lover
who was exerting himself outside the prison walls. Her attitude of
negligence and indifference perplexed everyone who did not know of some
secret support. They wondered at the calm demeanour of this nervous
artist who was accustomed to outbursts of violent anger if affairs did
not march in accordance with her desires. They marvelled at the
enigmatic smile by which she concealed her last deception. She played
the part allotted to her nobly, to the admiration of all who beheld her
confidence.
“Death?” she soliloquized. “Death is nothing, nor life, either, for that
matter. To die, to sleep, to pass into nothingness, what does it matter?
Everything is an illusion.”
One of the nuns, shocked by this heresy, hoped to see the woman
reconciled to the orthodox faith by reminding her that the prison
chaplain and a Protestant minister were in attendance, and recommended
that Mata Hari make her peace with God by seeing either one of them.
While considering this suggestion Mata Hari carefully adjusted the combs
in her hair before a small mirror, powdered her face and bust, and
generally completed a careful toilette. If she was to feign death she
could at least be a well-turned-out corpse. Observing that the nuns had
clumsily knotted the laces of her dainty shoes, she mildly remonstrated.
“It is plain to see, Sister, that you do not have laces like these in
your boots. But no matter, I will put them right, and you may call the
Protestant minister. Although I have very little need of his ministry,
he may come in.”
The woman whose only religion had been the worship of sensuous pleasures
and whose nearest approach to spirituality was a form of Buddhist
pessimism, knelt before the minister and was baptized in the rites of
Anabaptism. Then the officers entered the cell to claim their prisoner.
“Have you any declaration to make?” asked one of them.
Mata Hari turned upon him with amused contempt as she answered:
“None, and if I had it would not be to you that I should make it.”
“Have you any wish to express?”
“Yes. I would like to see Captain Marov, but as he is in Russia I shall
be content to write to him if you will give me permission.”
In the prison director’s office she calmly adjusted her hat before
sitting down to write three letters, one to her young daughter full of
wise motherly counsel to guide aright her life, one to the favoured
French lover who had braved public condemnation to bear witness in her
favour, and one to the absent Marov. These she handed to her lawyer with
the strict injunction that he display care in putting them into
envelopes, so that her lovers’ letters might not go to her daughter; she
wished no such embarrassing situation. This final privilege completed,
Mata Hari submitted to the instructions of the officers. The party of
guards and official witnesses got into waiting cars and proceeded
without delay to the place of execution. On the way the prisoner chatted
pleasantly with the two gendarmes who accompanied her, gently
reproaching one for remaining a bachelor. They arrived at the
rifle-range just as a chill dawn was lighting a grey sky and the whistle
of a near-by factory summoned the early workers to resume their daily
tasks.
Troops were drawn up in readiness, infantry in horizon blue, cavalry
with their long black plumes drooping from brass helmets, and artillery
in service dress, forming three sides of a hollow square. On the open
side of this formation was the sinister tree, stripped of its leaves and
branches. When her car arrived on the scene Mata Hari stepped daintily
between some small pools left by the night rain. At the sight of the
brave parade collected in her honour the prisoner whispered to the
terrified little nun who accompanied her:
“Come, little Sister, hold tightly to my hand.”
It was not because Mata Hari desired comforting assurance, but because
she was protecting the trembling Sister, that she made this remark. The
religious was feeling the poignancy of the impending tragedy much more
than the principal actor. She was nervous at the presence of all this
soldiery required to execute judgment upon one lone woman. Mata Hari was
accustomed to military pomp. Her royal lover had made her familiar with
its significance. Now, as the troops responded to the sharp command
“Present arms!” they were saluting the Prince of All Things in whose
presence Mata Hari was soon to answer for her deeds. Nevertheless, Mata
Hari accepted the salute as homage to herself, and as she passed across
the steadfast ranks she bowed gravely in acknowledgment. Slowly, with
the majesty of a princess before her guard of honour, the Red Dancer
permitted herself to be guided to the sinister tree. When she had gained
her place in the centre of the parade she said to the attendant nun, who
was still clinging nervously to the other’s firm grip:
“Now it is over, you may release me.”
The legal requirements were completed by the reading of the
court-martial’s sentence. The minister prayed until the officers began
to stir nervously at the prolonged delay, the faithful nun knelt on the
soft moist earth and added her prayers to that of the minister, begging
a final mercy for this sister who had erred. Then the priest, having
completed his ministrations stepped back, the gendarmes pressed the
condemned woman against the tree trunk. When a bandage was produced to
shut out from her sight the final preparations for her death, Mata Hari
disdainfully waved it aside. She who had looked so boldly on life had no
need to fear death, especially a death in which she was merely playing a
part for the deception of some five thousand interested spectators, in
order to carry out the instructions of a faithful lover whose unseen
hands were arranging the details. Mata Hari knew that the officials had
got wind of some plot for her rescue. They had examined Maître Clunet
about mysterious reports they had received during the night, but if the
old man had been able, faithfully, to deny knowledge of the existence of
any scheme to release her, the officials were, nevertheless, uneasy.
When the two gendarmes made a pretence of tying the prisoner to the tree
they did not even bother to fasten the knot of the rope. A good deal of
significance was later attached to this omission.
The three lines of troops were called to attention. From their ranks
came a dozen soldiers at the double, halting at the word of command
within ten paces of the condemned. Quickly the young officer in command
of the party gave his orders:
“Take aim.”
Slowly he raised his sword to give the signal which would produce the
fatal volley. Mata Hari was playing her unrehearsed part admirably. She
gaily kissed her hand to the minister, to the old advocate who was now a
pitifully weak old man, weeping unrestrainedly. To the young officer
standing with upraised sword she said in a sweet voice:
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“Fire.”
At the crack of the rifles there was a deadly hush which lasted until
the doctors had certified death and there came a last word of command:
“Forward, march!”
Round the three sides of the square went those French soldiers who had
been called to witness the vengeance on their dead comrades, marching
with the blare of trumpets and the roll of drums, glancing, who knows
with what sensations, sidewards at the heap of huddled skirts lying at
the foot of a bare tree, where a woman’s face lay smiling enigmatically
at the overhanging canopy of heaven.
The little group of awestruck spectators, who were prevented from
approaching too closely the motionless body with its disfigured face,
were about to disperse when the officer in charge of the execution,
glancing expectantly at the weeping lawyer, asked:
“Does anyone claim this body?”
There was no response.
Oh, ingratitude! The lovely amber-tinted body that had danced for the
delight of so many was despised and rejected by all her numerous lovers
when death had stilled its allurements.
* * * * *
That night the Paris newspapers told the curious world that the spy H21
had paid the penalty of her crimes. In the morning when those whose
morbid curiosity could hardly credit the truth visited the little
cemetery, what was their chagrin to find that the shallow grave was
empty! Instantly the report spread that Mata Hari had escaped the
bullets of her executioners and had been carried off by the lover who
had planned the escape. That is why one still meets on the boulevards of
Paris certain devoted lovers of her memory who declare that she and
Pierre de Mortissac have revived the corybantic orgies of the worship of
Siva; whispers of marvellous and scandalous entertainment still interest
the credulous.
What is the secret of the empty grave? A grisly tale. Before the
execution, a medical college, with the gruesome hunger for human bodies
upon which to conduct the surgical experiments from which suffering
humanity benefits, asked the authorities to surrender this body of a
criminal for dissection. In accordance with their usual practice, when
there was no claimant, the authorities made this concession to science.
On the night that Mata Hari was shot her body was disinterred and
carried to the clinic, where the surgeons had ample proof that death was
due to the bullets of the firing party.
And Pierre de Mortissac?
A myth! The story goes that he had not bargained for the administration
of a _coup de grâce_ which dissipated the hopes of success for his plan,
and that he is now dragging out his life within the grey walls of a
monastery on an isolated hill in Spain where there is no outlook but the
heavens on which the thoughts of the inmates are piously turned. But all
investigation has proved unable to fix upon any recognizable incident of
his fantastic existence, and the prior and guest-master of the monastery
have lost their benign attitude in answering questions relating to the
presence in the monastery of Pierre de Mortissac.