The theatres of Paris were beginning to boom again. The Germans attended to celebrate the glory of their victories and to show off the beautiful Frenchwomen they wore on their arms like trophies. The French attended to forget for a few hours that they were an unhappy, defeated people.
Noelle had attended the theatre in Marseille a few times, but she had seen sleazy amateur plays acted out by fourth-rate performers for indifferent audiences. The theatre in Paris was something else again. It was alive and sparkling and filled with the wit and grace of Molière, Racine and Colette. The incomparable Sacha Guitry had opened his theatre and Noelle went to see him perform. She attended a revival of Büchner’s La Morte de Danton and a play called Asmodée by a promising new young writer named François Mauriac. She went to the Comédie Française to see Pirandello’s Chacun La Verité and Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac. Noelle always went alone, oblivious of the admiring stares of those around her, completely lost in the drama taking place on the stage. Something in the magic that went on behind the footlights struck a responsive chord in her. She was playing a part just like the actors on stage, pretending to be something that she wasn’t, hiding behind a mask.
One play in particular, Huis Clos by Jean Paul Sartre, affected her deeply. It starred Philippe Sorel, one of the idols of Europe. Sorel was ugly, short and beefy, with a broken nose and the face of a boxer. But the moment he spoke, a magic took place. He was transformed into a sensitive handsome man. It’s like the story of the Prince and the Frog, Noelle thought, watching him perform. Only he is both. She went back to watch him again and again, sitting in the front row studying his performance, trying to learn the secret of his magnetism.
One evening during intermission an usher handed Noelle a note. It read, ‘I have seen you in the audience night after night. Please come backstage this evening and let me meet you. P.S.’ Noelle read it over, savouring it. Not because she gave a damn about Philippe Sorel, but because she knew that this was the beginning she had been looking for.
She went backstage after the performance. An old man at the stage door ushered her into Sorel’s dressing room. He was seated before a makeup mirror, wearing only shorts, wiping off his makeup. He studied Noelle in the mirror. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said finally. ‘You’re even more beautiful up close.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur Sorel.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Marseille.’
Sorel swung around to look at her more closely. His eyes moved to her feet and slowly worked their way up to the top of her head, missing nothing. Noelle stood there under his scrutiny, not moving. ‘Looking for a job?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I never pay for it,’ Sorel said. ‘All you’ll get from me is a pass to my play. If you want money, fuck a banker.’
Noelle stood there quietly watching him. Finally Sorel said, ‘What are you looking for?’
‘I think I’m looking for you.’
They had supper and afterwards went back to Sorel’s apartment in the beautiful rue Maurice-Barres, overlooking the corner where it became the Bois de Boulogne. Philippe Sorel was a skilful lover, surprisingly considerate and unselfish. Sorel had expected nothing from Noelle but her beauty, and he was astonished by her versatility in bed.
‘Christ!’ he said. ‘You’re fantastic. Where did you learn all that?’
Noelle thought about it a moment. It was really not a question of learning. It was a matter of feeling. To her a man’s body was an instrument to be played on, to explore to its innermost depths, finding the responsive chords and building upon them, using her own body to help create exquisite harmonies.
‘I was born with it,’ she said simply.
Her fingertips began to lightly play around his lips, quick little butterfly touches, and then moved down to his chest and stomach. She saw him starting to grow hard and erect again. She arose and went into the bathroom and returned a moment later and slid his hard penis into her mouth. Her mouth was hot, filled with warm water.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he said.
They spent the entire night making love, and in the morning. Sorel invited Noelle to move in with him.
Noelle lived with Philippe Sorel for six months. She was neither happy nor unhappy. She knew that her being there made Sorel ecstatically happy, but this did not matter in the slightest to Noelle. She regarded herself as simply a student, determined to learn something new every day. He was a school that she was attending, a small part in her large plan. To Noelle there was nothing personal in their relationship, for she gave nothing of herself. She had made that mistake twice, and she would never make it again. There was room for only one man in Noelle’s thoughts and that was Larry Douglas. Noelle would pass the place des Victoires or a park or restaurant where Larry had taken her, and she would feel the hatred well up within her, choking her, so it became difficult to breathe, and there was something else mixed in with the hatred, something Noelle could not put a name to.
Two months after moving in with Sorel, Noelle received a call from Christian Barbet.
‘I have another report for you,’ the little detective said.
‘Is he all right?’ Noelle asked quickly.
Again Barbet was filled with that sense of uneasiness. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Noelle’s voice was filled with relief. ‘I’ll be right down.’
The report was divided into two parts. The first dealt with Larry Douglas’ military career. He had shot down five German planes and was the first American to become an Ace in the war. He had been promoted to Captain. The second part of the report interested her more. He had become very popular in London’s wartime social life and had become engaged to the daughter of a British Admiral. There followed a list of girls that Larry was sleeping with, ranging from show girls to the wife of an under-secretary in the Ministry.
‘Do you want me to keep on with this?’ Barbet asked.
‘Of course,’ Noelle replied. She took an envelope from her purse and handed it to Barbet. ‘Call me when you have anything further.’
And she was gone.
Barbet sighed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Folle,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Folle.’
If Philippe Sorel had had any inkling of what was going on in Noelle’s mind, he would have been astonished. Noelle seemed totally devoted to him. She did everything for him: cooked wonderful meals, shopped, supervised the cleaning of his apartment and made love whenever the mood stirred him. And asked for nothing. Sorel congratulated himself on having found the perfect mistress. He took her everywhere, and she met all his friends. They were enchanted with her and thought Sorel a very lucky man.
One night as they were having supper after the show, Noelle said to him, ‘I want to be an actress, Philippe.’
He shook his head. ‘God knows you’re beautiful enough, Noelle, but I’ve been up to my ass in actresses all my life. You’re different, and I want to keep you that way. I don’t want to share you with anyone.’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t I give you everything you need?’
‘Yes, Philippe,’ Noelle replied.
When they returned to the apartment that night, Sorel wanted to make love. When they finished, he was drained. Noelle had never been as exciting, and Sorel congratulated himself that all she needed was the firm guidance of a man.
The following Sunday was Noelle’s birthday, and Philippe Sorel gave a dinner party for her at Maxim’s. He had taken over the large private dining room upstairs, decorated with plush red velvet and deep dark wood panelling. Noelle had helped write