Mata Hari's Last Dance(68)

“I prefer men in uniform.”

“Men in German uniform,” he says, as if he is speaking an obscenity.

“That isn’t accurate,” Edouard objects.

But Mornet is not deterred. “This tribunal does not find it credible that the astonishing sums these military men paid—three hundred thousand marks from Officer Alfred Kiepert, twenty thousand marks from Consul Cramer, for example—were money paid for the favors of an aging mistress.”

“Object!” Edouard says. “The reason for these payments are in her deposition.”

“You must be very expensive,” Mornet says to me. His tone is mocking.

“Definitely,” I reply.

“Object!” Edouard repeats, sounding outraged.

“What do you think you are worth?”

“All or nothing,” I say, defiant.

None of the judges paid Edouard the slightest attention when he shouted his objections, but now Mornet addresses him directly. “We have read her deposition, counselor. What I am saying is that we do not believe her claims. We believe she is lying.” He pauses, as if he is considering his next words very carefully. “On December first, Monsieur Clunet, fifty thousand Allied soldiers were killed. Miss Zelle provided the Germans with information that led directly to these deaths.”

“That’s a lie,” I shout and Edouard is immediately on his feet. “Show me the proof! Fifty thousand men? There wasn’t a single story in any newspaper in this country—”

“It is confidential information,” Andre Mornet replies. “We are at war.” He turns to me on the stand. “You betrayed France, Miss Zelle.”

The room has become oppressive. “France is my home!” I say. “For most of my life I have lived in Paris. Am I a courtesan? Yes. A traitoress? Never!” I have to rest my head in my hands to compose myself.

Mornet calls his witnesses, and one after another, officers I’ve never met detail romantic liaisons that never took place. The entire trial is a farce. The last to speak is a short colonel named Goudet. If I searched all of France, I’d never find another man as fat or smug. Mornet introduces him as the head of French counterespionage.

“I have studied the case of the accused with great care,” Colonel Goudet says. The room is absolutely silent. I realize I am holding my breath. “Margaretha Zelle”—Goudet clears his throat—“is the most dangerous spy of the twentieth century.”

All seven judges begin talking at once.

*

“Look at this woman,” Mornet says, as he finishes his summation.

He has detailed my fluency in several languages, my relationships with dozens of military officers, some real and some pure fantasy; he has challenged my intelligence, my morality, and my lack of conscience.

“This is a woman who is accustomed to getting what she wants: men and money. She uses her charm and her fame to convince the world that she is harmless, but do not be fooled. She must not get what she wants this time because she has betrayed France. She has taken money and given information to our enemy that has cost French soldiers their lives. She must not walk free. Make no mistake. Margaretha Zelle is guilty of treason!”

*

I’m taken directly from the courtroom to a car. I’m not given the chance to converse with Edouard or talk to any of the reporters who wait for me outside of the Palais de Justice.

In my cell I can’t sleep. I am too numb.

After my son’s death, I stopped talking. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I don’t remember what I dreamed about, or what kept me occupied during the day. I stared at the white ceiling for long periods of time, thinking about Norman and where he was, if he would recognize me when I got to heaven, and if he did, whether he’d still be a boy or a man. My servant, Laksari, stayed by my bedside, talking to me about my daughter, urging me to spend time with my little girl. Now, as I stare at the bars of my cell, I wonder if I will see Norman before I see my daughter again.

*

I am returned to the Palais de Justice the next morning and there are a thousand people crowding the marble steps, yet I am so distressed I can barely hear them calling my name. Inside the courtroom the trial resumes at eight o’clock. It’s Edouard’s turn to speak in my defense.

He calls the only witness who has agreed to speak on my behalf: Henri de Marguerie. We spent one evening together and haven’t seen each other in more than a decade.

“You’re military?”

“I was a pilot.”

I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I’m willing to accept his invitation.

Henri speaks kindly about me but it is apparent that none of the judges are interested in the warm memories of a long-retired aviator who bedded a woman easily at a party, and Mornet makes short work of him.

“Before spending the evening with you did Miss Zelle ask about your military affiliation?”

“I was retired—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”