Mata Hari's Last Dance(61)

“Nothing. I swear—nothing!”

“I’ve been searching for you for weeks. You vanished from Berlin. I heard rumors that you were in Paris and that—”

“I was arrested at the élysée Palace. I’ve been in Saint Lazare Prison.” It’s such a relief to have him here with me, to finally share the nightmare that has swallowed me. “Have you been inside Saint Lazare, Edouard? I had no light, no toilet, no shower. I was left in a cell with nothing but hay and a window with bars but no glass. In this weather, Edouard! I was so cold; the place is frozen in time. I looked out of the window and expected to see the Revolution! I was alone for weeks. It was inhumane.”

He shakes his head. “Did they give you a change of clothes, a blanket?”

“They gave me nothing. Not for the longest time.” I start to cry, feeling everything anew when I see the empathy in his eyes. “They locked me up like an animal. I wasn’t allowed to write letters or to phone anyone. I thought I was losing my mind I was so cold and hungry. When I thought I would surely die, two nuns arrived, and they brought me fresh towels and soap.”

“Did they treat you well?”

“One, Sister Léonide, was kind to me.” You must eat, Mata Hari, she pleaded with me, or you will sicken. “They took me to a room with faucet pumps in the ceiling and watched me shower.” I feel myself flush. “You don’t know how much modesty you have until you are in prison, Edouard. The nuns told me I was being taken to see Captain Bouchardon. That was why I was allowed to clean myself. I couldn’t place his name, but I knew I’d heard it before.”

“Captain Bouchardon—”

“Le Cigale, do you remember? In the early days. He was a sergeant in the police department. He wanted me arrested for dancing nude.” He was a little mustached man I dismissed because more powerful men were protecting me. “Back then he left me alone because I was sleeping with the chief of police. But when I was brought to his office from Saint Lazare, he interrogated me. Now he is a prosecutor. He demanded the names of my German contacts—”

“Do you have German contacts?”

“Are you asking if I’m a spy?” I shrink back from the bars. Who does he think I’ve become? “Against France? Of course not! I told Bouchardon the truth. That I agreed to obtain information to help France defeat Germany, that Commandant Ladoux—”

“Commandant Ladoux? Who is he?”

“He’s with the French Secret Service. I met him through Jean Hallure, the drunk musician from the Kursaal. Now he’s a lieutenant.” I’m going too fast for him. Edouard pats his jacket, then his pockets, looking for a pen and paper to write all this down.

“Why have they let you visit me?” I ask.

“They haven’t,” he says absently, giving up the search. “I bribed a guard to come in here to see you.” He gives me a wry look. “Haven’t I told you there isn’t anyone in Paris I don’t know? Now—how many times did this Captain Bouchardon interrogate you?” he asks.

“Sixteen times. Those were the only days I was allowed to shower. I was made to wash myself before they brought me to his office. The prison issued me a number, Edouard. 721 44625. I told Bouchar-don exactly what happened in Madrid. I chronicled every detail. I informed him that I was hired by Commandant Ladoux of the French Secret Service, and that I provided the commandant with important information to aid France.”

“How did you get this information, M’greet?”

“I seduced a German in Madrid; his name is Major Arnold Kalle. I spent an evening with him and he revealed a plot to send a German submarine into French territory. I went straight to the French Embassy and reported this information by telegram to Commandant Ladoux! I’m not in bed with the Germans for pleasure, Edouard. I did this for France. But no one will listen to the truth—it’s as if the world has gone mad.” I take a deep breath. “I need you to represent me.”

“I don’t know that I can do that, M’greet. I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

“That’s fine. I’m not a criminal.” I grip the bars and he wraps his fingers around mine. But I can see doubt in his eyes. “The cell at Saint Lazare had no furniture at all. It was worse than Scotland Yard. I thought that was impossible. I slept on the hay; it was flea infested and soaked in urine—”

“M’greet, there’s something I don’t understand. If you are working for the French Secret Service, why have they arrested you? Why are they the ones calling you a German spy?”

“I don’t know.” Though I’ve had nothing but time to think it over. “I can’t understand it either.”

“Are you aware that they’re planning a court martial? There must be something you know, something that they want.”

“I swear, there’s nothing! I’ve considered everything and none of it makes sense.”

“What evidence do they have, then, that you are giving information to Germany?”

“None! They searched all of my belongings. Everything I had with me at the élysée Palace was confiscated. All they have confronted me with is a tube of oxycyanide of mercury.”

“And? Why do they think it is important?”

“Because they are fools—it’s my birth control, Edouard!” I say, exasperated. “Bouchardon behaves as if fertility is imaginary. He insists I use it to make ‘sympathetic inks.’ That’s what he said. ‘One drop of this,’ he claims, ‘and you are translating letters.’ ”