Overnight, Noelle Page had become a star. J
ealous associates in the theater said that it was due solely to the power and talent of Armand Gautier, and while it was true that Gautier had launched her career, it is axiomatic among those who work in the theater that no one can make a star except the public, that faceless, fickle, adoring, mercurial arbiter of a performer's destiny. The public adored Noelle.
As for Armand Gautier, he bitterly regretted the part he had played in starting Noelle's career. Her need of him was now gone; all that held her to him was a whim, and he lived in constant dread of the day she would leave him. Gautier had worked in the theater most of his life, but he had never met anyone like Noelle. She was an insatiable sponge, learning everything he had to teach her and demanding more. It had been fantastic to watch the metamorphosis in her as she went from the halting, external beginnings of grasping a part to the self-assured inner mastery of the character. Gautier had known from the very beginning that Noelle was going to be a star--there was never any question about it--but what astonished him as he learned to know her better was that stardom was not her goal. The truth was that Noelle was not even interested in acting.
At first, Gautier simply could not believe it. Being a star was the top of the ladder, the sine qua non. But to Noelle acting was simply a stepping stone, and Gautier had not the faintest clue as to what her real goal was. She was a mystery, an enigma, and the deeper Gautier probed, the more the riddle grew, like the Chinese boxes that opened and revealed further boxes inside. Gautier prided himself on understanding people, particularly women, and the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about the woman he lived with and loved drove him frantic. He asked Noelle to marry him, and she said, "Yes, Armand," and he knew that she meant nothing by it, that it meant no more to her than her engagement to Philippe Sorel or God alone knew how many other men in her past life. He realized that the marriage would never take place. When Noelle was ready, she would move on.
Gautier was sure that every man who met her tried to persuade her to go to bed with him. He also knew from his envious friends that none of them had succeeded.
"You lucky son of a bitch," one of his friends had said, "You must be hung like un taureau. I offered her a yacht, her own chateau and a staff of servants in Cap d'Antibes, and she laughed at me."
Another friend, a banker, told him, "I have finally found the first thing money cannot buy."
"Noelle?"
The banker nodded. "That's right. I told her to name her price. She was not interested. What is it you have for her, my friend?"
Armand Gautier wished he knew.
Gautier remembered when he had found the first play for her. He had read no more than a dozen pages when he knew it was exactly what he was looking for. It was a tour de force, a drama about a woman whose husband had gone to war. A soldier appeared at her home one day telling her that he was a comrade of her husband with whom he had served on the Russian Front. As the play developed, the woman fell in love with the soldier, unaware that he was a psychopathic killer and that her life was in danger. It was a great acting role for the wife, and Gautier agreed to direct it immediately, on condition that Noelle Page play the lead. The backers were reluctant to star an unknown but agreed to have her audition for them. Gautier hurried home to bring the news to Noelle. She had come to him because she wanted to be a star and now he was going to give her her wish. He told himself this would bring them closer together, would make her really love him. They would get married and he would possess her, always.
But when Gautier had told her the news, Noelle had merely looked up at him and said, "That is wonderful, Armand, thank you." In exactly the same tone of voice in which she might have thanked him for telling her the correct time or lighting her cigarette.
Gautier watched her for a long moment, knowing that in some strange way Noelle was sick, that some emotion in her had either died, or had never been alive and that no one would ever possess her. He knew this and yet he could not really believe it, because what he saw was a beautiful, affectionate girl who happily catered to his every whim and asked for nothing in return. Because he loved her, Gautier put his doubts aside, and they went to work on the play.
Noelle was brilliant at the audition and got the part without question, as Gautier had known she would. When the play opened in Paris two months later, Noelle became, overnight, the biggest star in France. The critics had been prepared to attack the play and Noelle because they were aware that Gautier had put his mistress, an inexperienced actress, in the lead, and it was a situation too delicious for them to pass up. But she had completely captivated them. They searched for new superlatives to describe her performance and her beauty. The play was a complete sellout.
Every night after the performance, Noelle's dressing room was filled with visitors. She saw everyone: shoe clerks, soldiers, millionaires, shop girls, treating them all with the same patient courtesy. Gautier would watch in amazement. It is almost as though she were a Princess receiving her subjects, he thought.
Over a period of a year Noelle received three letters from Marseille. She tore them up, unopened, and finally they stopped coming.
In the spring, Noelle starred in a motion picture that Armand Gautier directed, and when it was released, her fame spread. Gautier marveled at Noelle's patience in giving interviews and being photographed. Most stars hated it and did it either to help increase their box office value or for reasons of ego. In Noelle's case, she was indifferent to both motivations. She would change the subject when Gautier questioned her about why she was willing to pass up a chance to rest in the South of France in order to stay in a cold, rainy Paris to do tiresome poses for Le Matin, La Petite Parisienne or L'll-lustration. It was just as well, for Gautier would have been stunned if he had known her real reason. Noelle's motivation was very simple.
Everything she did was for Larry Douglas.
When Noelle posed for photographs, she visualized her former lover picking up a magazine and recognizing her picture. When she played a scene in a movie, she saw Larry Douglas sitting in a theater one night in some far-off country, watching her. Her work was a reminder to him, a message from the past, a signal that would one day bring him back to her; and that was all Noelle wanted, for him to come back to her, so that she could destroy him.
Thanks to Christian Barbet, Noelle had an evergrowing scrapbook on Larry Douglas. The little detective had moved from his shabby offices to a large, luxurious suite on the rue Richer, near the Folies-Bergere. The first time Noelle had gone to see him in his new offices, Barbet had grinned at her surprised expression and said, "I got it cheap. These offices were occupied by a Jew."
"You said you had some news for me," Noelle said curtly.
The smirk left Barbet's face. "Ah yes." He did have news. It was difficult getting information from England under the very nose of the Nazis, but Barbet had found ways. He bribed sailors on neutral ships to smuggle in letters from an agency in London. But that was only one of his sources. He appealed to the patriotism of the French underground, the humanity of the International Red Cross and the cupidity of black marketeers with overseas connections. To each of them he told a different story, and the flow of information kept coming in.
He picked up a report on his desk. "Your friend was shot down over the English Channel," he said without preamble. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Noelle's face, waiting for her aloof facade to crumble, taking enjoyment in the pain he was inflicting. But Noelle's expression never changed. She looked at him and said confidently, "He was rescued." Barbet stared at her and swallowed and answered reluctantly, "Well, yes. He was picked up by a British Rescue boat." And wondered how the devil she could have known.
Everything about this woman baffled him, and he hated her as a client and was tempted to drop her, but Barbet knew that that would have been stupid.
He had attempted once to make a pass at her, hinting that his services would be less expensive, but Noelle had rebuffed him in a manner that made him feel like a clumsy lout, and he would never forgive her for that. One
day, Barbet promised himself quietly, one day this tight-assed bitch would pay.
Now, as Noelle stood in his office, a look of distaste on her beautiful face, Barbet hurriedly went on with the report, eager to get rid of her.
"His squadron has moved to Kirton, in Lincolnshire. They're flying Hurricanes and--" Noelle was interested in something else.
"His engagement to the Admiral's daughter," she said, "it's off, isn't it?"
Barbet looked up in surprise and mumbled, "Yes. She found out about some of his other women." It was almost as though Noelle had already seen the report. She had not, of course, but it did not matter. The bond of hatred that tied Noelle to Larry Douglas was so strong it seemed that nothing important could ever happen to him without her knowing it. Noelle took the report and left. When she returned home she read it over slowly, then carefully filed it among the other reports and locked it up where it could not be found.