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Chapters (46)
  1. The Man Who Loved Mata Hari
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PART I: The Early Years
  5. Prologue
  6. Chapter One
  7. Chapter Two
  8. Chapter Three
  9. Chapter Four
  10. Chapter Five
  11. Chapter Six
  12. Chapter Seven
  13. PART II: The Middle Years
  14. Chapter Eight
  15. Chapter Nine
  16. Chapter Ten
  17. Chapter Eleven
  18. Chapter Twelve
  19. Chapter Thirteen
  20. Chapter Fourteen
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. PART III: The War Years
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. PART IV: The Last Year
  31. Chapter Twenty-Three
  32. Chapter Twenty-Four
  33. Chapter Twenty-Five
  34. Chapter Twenty-Six
  35. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  36. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  37. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  38. Chapter Thirty
  39. Chapter Thirty-One
  40. Chapter Thirty-Two
  41. Chapter Thirty-Three
  42. Chapter Thirty-Four
  43. Chapter Thirty-Five
  44. Montserrat
  45. Author’s Afterword
  46. Table of Contents

Seven vehicles waited in the rainswept courtyard below, including the prisoner's black Renault. The Reverend Arboux had already settled into the back seat, while Sister Leonide waited on the curb. Although the streets were still deserted except for predawn delivery vans, one still couldn't help imagining hundreds of eyes peering from darkened windows.

She was silent for the first few miles, eyes straight ahead. The trees had been shedding their leaves for at least ten days, gradually exposing more and more of her city. Even from the rim of Vincennes she was able to see the crowd—more than a hundred who had come to watch her die.

"Who are they?" she asked. "What do they want?"

No one responded, and Reverend Arboux continued reading from his Bible.

There were also spectators lining the road from the chateau gates, and still more along the rim of the polygone. But if she had hoped to see a familiar face, she was to be disappointed. None of those responsible was waiting: not Georges Ladoux, not Bouchardon, not even Charles Dunbar. For the most part there were only curiosity seekers, and those journalists who had always followed her trail.

The motorcade stopped at the edge of the field. A Captain Thibaud and a Captain Robillard approached first, but the Reverend insisted on finishing the Twenty-third Psalm before allowing them to take her. The wooden stake—six feet high and ten inches around —had been erected on a grassy rise below the poplars. The two rows of twelve riflemen had assembled at twenty paces. Still clutching Sister Leonide's hand, Zelle hesitated only a moment before stepping onto the field. No one spoke as she walked to the stake.

There were only minutes left now, scarcely time for the traditional ration of rum or a formal reading of the sentence. Sister Leonide and the Reverend Arboux had already left the field. Two attending officers secured her to the stake. A third withdrew his sword. Then, despite the overall quality of French marksmanship, only four bullets actually struck her—one in the left shoulder, one below the right breast, and two more in the heart.

Montserrat

Montserrat

THOSE in search of the site where Margaretha Zelle is buried are usually directed to an unmarked grave at Pere Lachaise in Paris. In fact, her body was taken to the dissecting room of a local municipal hospital. The remains were apparently burned, and there is no record of what happened to the ashes.

Still, there was an aftermath. There was a last letter to her daughter, and a brief note of thanks to her attorney. A later rumor would have it that she even wrote to Rudolph Spangler, but in fact she remembered none of her former lovers except for Nicholas Gray.