Chapter VII: Part 7

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.”

So far Mata Hari had borne herself with considerable credit except for 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?

Yet with an infantile pride in themselves Mata Hari and her advocate 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.