Mata Hari's Last Dance(27)

“It isn’t wonderful for him,” Edouard says. “Or, I imagine, his fiancée.”

“Why are you so sour?” I hug my fur stole closer to me, comforted by the warmth. “Are you jealous?”

He ignores my question. “I’ve arranged a contract for you to perform Samson and Delilah. Three weeks. At La Cigale.”

“Excellent. I want to buy another fur coat. Givenchy would buy one for me but he was so terse in his last telegram that I want to make him wait—”

“M’greet, are you saving any money?”

“Why? What for?”

He is so astonished that it takes him several moments to reply. “For when this—all of this—is done.”

Now I’m the one who’s shocked. “Why should it be done? This is my life, Edouard.”

“Be serious, M’greet. The public is fickle. Novelty wanes and someday this will all be over.”

“Fine. Then I’ll take a lover,” I say, and watch his expression.

We don’t speak to each other for the rest of the trip.





Chapter 9


Jeanne Louise

Edouard sends his secretary with the contract for La Cigale. When I open the door, she appraises Givenchy’s apartment with a cool sweep of her lashes, the polished floors, the marble staircase. In the curl of her lip I can read her thoughts: Mata Hari is nothing but a grande horizontale. She hands me the envelope and turns on her heel without the courtesy of a single word.

*

I stand on the Champs-élysées and think about what a fool Edouard is. I have nothing to save for. No reason at all to be careful about what I spend or what I do. What’s the difference if I buy one diamond ring or ten?

I go into E. Goyard A?né, one of my favorite shops on the Rue Saint-Honoré, and ask the salesman about the steamer bag, designed to be taken on long trips abroad.

“Madam, you understand this piece is four thousand francs?”

“Wonderful. I’ll take two.”

Purses, scarves, silk blouses, cashmere shawls. Everything comes home with me that day. I’m never supposed to repeat an outfit twice. Isn’t that what Edouard said? And now I’m one of the fashionable women in Paris. Bowtie thinks so, and the admiring gazes of other women tell me he’s right. The next morning I do it all over again. That afternoon I make a purchase I’ve been longing for since the day Edouard arrived at my vile little apartment in Montmartre: I buy my own car. A blue Renault. Louis Renault himself drives it home for me when I tell him that I will be finding a chauffeur, since I don’t know how to drive. I slide into the passenger seat and enjoy the stares of the people we pass. The blue of the car is bright, electric. He parks in front of my apartment and when my neighbors see Louis hand me the keys, I feel absolutely giddy.

*

La Cigale is filled to capacity. I drop my veils and men rush the stage, flashbulbs popping as women take out binoculars. It’s a stupendous opening.

A little mustached man crowds the door to my dressing room after the performance, trembling with rage. “It is illegal in this city to perform in the nude,” he threatens. “I can have you arrested!”

“But you won’t.”

He draws himself up to full height. “I am Sergeant Bouchardon, the head of the French—”

I hold up my hand. “Take your concerns to my lawyer, Edouard Clunet.”

His face turns red. I watch it in the mirror. “I will have you arrested—”

“But you won’t, monsieur. If you do, your superiors will be most displeased.”

As if on cue the chief of police appears, so handsome in his uniform that I catch my breath. His sergeant cannot leave quickly enough.

*

People now recognize me wherever I go. At Longchamp, at Maxim’s, even on the Champs-élysées they call out, “Mata Hari!” The public loves me, but Edouard is still angry. He doesn’t visit me for the entire three-week run of Samson and Delilah. Just as I start to think that maybe I don’t need him anymore, horrible news comes and he is the only person I want to speak with. I go to his office in tears, my makeup running in dark lines down my face. When his secretary sees me, she actually recoils.

“Where is Edouard?”

“Upstairs. But ma’am—”

I go to his office and fall into his leather chair. “He’s divorcing me.”

Edouard gets up quickly and shuts the door, a quiet click. He hands me a handkerchief and I wipe my eyes. Then I weep into the handkerchief.

Edouard waits. When he speaks, his voice is calming. “Who is divorcing you, M’greet?”

“My husband. I hate him. I left him. He was a captain. In the army.”

“The Dutch army?”

I nod.

Edouard lets me cry, trying to piece the puzzle together in his mind. “On what grounds, M’greet?”

It is too much to bear. “Adultery and debauchery.”

His eyes go wide as I hiccup into the handkerchief.

“He’s the one responsible for the death of our son and now he’s calling me debauched.” I can’t bear it. The memories are actually cutting me open. “Oh God, Edouard, what should I do?”

“Nothing.”

I think I must have misheard him and look up. “What?”