Chapter VIII: Part 8

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.

The history is ended, only the legends prevail. All that is known to the world in general of the Red Dancer of the Hundred Veils or no veils at all has been told here in an attempt to separate the truth from the fables. It has not been attempted to follow the legend to its entire length, for that would be an endless task that is being increased by the band of zealots who maintain that Mata Hari was a true Brahma and that she still lives.

Between the mythical purple altar of the Kanda Swany where her life of romance began and the rifle-range at Vincennes where it ended there is the width of three continents. It required the talent of Mata Hari to bridge the gulf. Her origin was as she chose to make it; the end was none the less her own choice.

THE END

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.