Rodin's Lover (10 page)

Monsieur Rodin had begged off this week’s lessons. Camille wanted to ask him why, but did not want to intrude. Neither did she want him to think she tracked his movements. She only wanted to be sure he would not desert them. Yes, that was all. She chewed her thumbnail. She had struggled with her drawings all evening, despite the fact that she had the apartment to herself. The rest of the family had accepted an invitation to dine with one of Mother’s friends and she had faked being ill.

Camille tapped her pencil against the desktop. Why hadn’t Monsieur Rodin shown them his studio? She had yet to see any of his work outside of the occasional maquette he carried with him. She imagined the Dépôt des Marbres to be a grand place, packed with many materials, tools, and statues and busts galore. She glanced at the time. Nine o’clock already? She hadn’t made any progress at all. Perhaps she needed a break.

In a split second, Camille made a decision. She jumped from her chair, pulled on her winter things, and hired a coach. She would go to Rodin’s atelier to peek in the windows. There would be no harm in that. No one would be there and she could get a sense of who this man really was.

As the coach rumbled through the city streets, she wrestled with herself. What if he
was
there? She must stay out of sight.

When she descended from the coach, a flutter of nervous energy swarmed her stomach. Light blazed in the windows. She crossed the street quickly and put her back against the stone facade to shield herself from view. She smothered a laugh. She was a spy, embarking on a clandestine mission. She leaned toward the window and gazed inside. Dozens of pieces, armatures, and platforms filled the space. Her eyes darted from one corner of the room to another, and settled on the solitary figure inside.

Monsieur Rodin. He bent over a bust of what appeared to be a young woman, and he was so absorbed, he did not see her. He likely noticed nothing outside of his piece. Camille knew that sensation well. She stepped into full view and pressed her face against the glass to watch him. At last she had met someone as consumed with sculpture as she was. She smiled in the dark.

The Hôtel Continental was lavished in gilded molding, chandeliers, and velvety crimson fabric. Dozens of windows reflected the candlelight and the flicker of lamps, casting the ballroom in a haze of gold. Befitting for the birthday celebration of a national hero, Auguste thought. He still could not believe he had been invited to Victor Hugo’s birthday celebration—Edmond Bazire, journalist at the radical
Intransigeant
, critic, and new friend, had secured his invitation and
Auguste, in turn, had managed to bring Jules along to the soiree as well. He would work at their friendship until there was no hope—they had known each other so long. Perhaps they had hit a rough patch, was all.

Attendants in black-and-white livery swarmed the crowd like an army of worker bees, silently refilling empty glasses, wiping soiled surfaces, and whisking trays of delicacies beneath the noses of their distinguished guests. Auguste enjoyed watching them, their smooth expressions a thin veil that did not disguise their disgust for the wealthy, or perhaps a desperate longing to be like them. He studied the wrinkled hands of an attendant, saturated with fatigue, and the hump in his back. He found no pride in his work, but burden.

It was a sentiment Auguste could capture, and he understood it well at times. He felt his breast pocket in search of cigarette papers, a habitual gesture. His desk drawers overflowed with small scraps covered in sketches made on the go.

“You haven’t brought them, have you?” Jules Dalou asked.

“I should know better.” Auguste sipped from his glass of Mouton Rothschild 1870, one of the more expensive wines he’d ever tasted. “Inspiration always comes when it is inconvenient.”

“Artists see something noteworthy in life the rest of us lower beings never notice,” Edmond said, a wistfulness in his voice.

Jules chuckled and picked up his fork. “Perhaps writers rival our talents, or musicians, though I doubt it.”

Edmond cocked a fair eyebrow and glanced at Auguste.

Rodin drank deeply from his glass to prevent himself from saying something rude. Jules should show more humility. His awards had made him feel invincible and above the rest. Auguste knew an artist was only as respected as his next piece in the eyes of the critics. Consistency mattered more in the long run, rather than one dazzling piece.

Edmond swallowed a bite of roasted chicken. “My cousin is to voyage on the Orient Express.”

“The luxury train?” Jules’s eyebrows knitted together.

“Lucky man, isn’t he? It stops in Vienna and Constantinople. I heard the food and exotic vistas are well worth the trip. Intricate paneling, silk sheets, leather armchairs. I must admit, I’m envious.”

“Won’t they have to stop at every border?” Auguste asked,
unconvinced. “Sorting through all of the travel papers must be cumbersome for the crew. But Constantinople I would like to see.”

“Think of the intrigue.” Edmond’s brown eyes danced. “At each frontier, spies could jump aboard and hide from their enemies.”

Auguste laughed. “You have a rich imagination.”

Jules waved his fork. “I don’t know who would consider traveling to be a luxury. I detest it. And riding among all of the wealthy would put me off for certain.”

Edmond grunted his disagreement, putting an end to the conversation. This evening, Jules was not winning any hearts.

The men ate in silence.

Auguste looked past his tablemates to the place of honor where Victor Hugo sat. He had watched the great man from afar all evening, his stately stature and noble expression. Hugo never stroked his beard and comblike mustache, nor did he fidget. The man possessed composure and grace, even at his advanced age of eighty-one. Hugo was his childhood hero, a Goliath among his contemporaries. Republicanism, the common man, his legendary love for Juliette Drouet—all of the writer’s accomplishments, the allure of his personage, echoed in Rodin’s mind.

“I must thank you again, Edmond,” Auguste said, breaking the silence. “I am honored to be here, and for the chance to bring a guest.” He nodded at Jules. He had hoped bringing his friend to such a coveted event would smooth over their last, uncomfortable meeting.

“They are honored you’re here.” Edmond bent his blond head over his almost empty plate.

Auguste smiled. “You flatter me.”

“I have a surprise for you.” Edmond’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his wineglass. “I may have convinced Monsieur Hugo to allow you to sketch his likeness.”

Jules’s fork clattered against the porcelain.

Auguste didn’t know what to say, how to express his gratitude. It would be a dream to work with the great Hugo.

“I have left you speechless.” Edmond flashed a crooked smile. “Don’t be intimidated. Monsieur Hugo appreciates art in all its forms, though he doesn’t care for posing. Write to him with your request. Whatever his rules are, you must agree to them.”

“Well, aren’t you the fortunate one,” Jules said, his voice full of spite. He dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. Auguste flinched at his friend’s tone.

Edmond’s easy manner grew tense, and he looked sideways at Jules. “Are you feeling out of sorts this evening?”

Jules’s ears reddened. “Do I seem cross? I’m just in awe of Monsieur Hugo and such a wonderful opportunity.”

“Perhaps you will have your own,” Edmond said, pressing his lips into a hard line.

Auguste noted with satisfaction Edmond did not extend the invitation.

“I sketch models in their natural state, lying on the sofa, walking around, crouched on the floor,” Auguste said, redirecting the conversation. “It will not be so difficult to do the same for Hugo, though I won’t have near as much time.” He grew more animated as his excitement mounted. Dalou’s envy would not get the better of him. He could already envision Hugo’s bust in plaster. “But I am grateful for any at all.” Smiling, he leaned forward in his seat and held out his hand. “How can I ever thank you?”

Edmond shook his hand and smiled. “Create a great piece, my friend. That’s how you may thank me.”

“Well, then,” Jules said, “let us hope Hugo will be amenable to hosting you in his home. If not, perhaps I will give it a go.”

Doubt clouded Auguste’s good humor. He would do his absolute best to accommodate Hugo’s requests. Jules would not take this opportunity from him.

A
fternoon sunlight filtered through the streaked salon window and pooled on the cold tile, hardly warming the winter chill in the air. Auguste could see the vapor of his breath. Perhaps he would spend a bit less on marble this month and more on wood. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and picked up his novel once more—
Les Misérables
, Hugo’s most notable work, despite the widely negative reviews it had received. He grunted. The critics always had much to say, but neither the skill nor the will to create themselves.

He read to pass the time until seven o’clock, when he would venture to the writer’s house for his first visit. The only sound came from the rustling of pages between his fingertips, the faint tick of his timepiece.

“Auguste?” Rose’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Would you care for a bowl of soup?” She appeared in her usual navy house dress, her skirts brushing the tops of her sensible boots.

“No, I’m expected at Monsieur Hugo’s at seven for an aperitif.”

“I could wear my white and yellow gown, put a hot iron to my hair.” She fingered a frizzy lock sticking out from beneath her cotton cap.

“This isn’t a social call, Rose. It’s work. I’ll not be dining, but sketching Monsieur Hugo while the others eat. It’s unlikely he will even speak to me.”

“Of course he’ll speak to you. And you’ll talk about literature and politics and woo them all.”

Rodin examined her squared fingernails, the chapped skin of her working hands. “And you detest reading. If we discussed literature all evening, what would you do?”

An image of Mademoiselle Claudel came to mind, her lounging in a chair in her atelier, book in hand. How very intent she’d been. When he had placed his hand lightly on her shoulder she had startled. He smiled at the memory of their passionate discourse afterward.

“Do not mock me.” Rose noticed the smile and crossed her arms.

“I’m not teasing you, woman.” He stood and made his way to the door. “I simply speak the truth. You would grow tired of the talk about Jules Ferry’s laws of education and Prime Minister Duclerc, of political pamphlets, and poetry. I doubt they will gossip about bourgeois socialites and other feminine interests in front of us. We aren’t their friends, after all.”

“You’re meeting a woman there, aren’t you?” Her face flushed in anger. “I embarrass you, yet you parade your mistresses around town.”

“I said I’m working.” Auguste detested conflict and avoided it at all costs. He simply didn’t have time for the angst it inspired. He sighed and stood. Yet he owed Rose his attention. Despite her nagging and insecurities, she had been his first love, and a friend.

Her face softened as he approached. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “Why don’t we go to dinner somewhere tomorrow evening? Wear your best dress.”

She smiled and kissed his hand. “I would like that very much.”

Two hours later, Auguste found himself on the Avenue d’Eylau. He paused to assess the row of redbrick homes, their windows facing a park in the center of
la place
and the traffic of carriages and omnibuses zipping around the square. He ducked into the covered passageway beneath the building. A woman in a bombazine gown tugged her son closer to shield him from the brittle wind.

Rodin pulled up his collar and continued past several doorways. At number six he paused on the doorstep. Anxiety streaked through his limbs. Though he must remain “unseen” by Hugo, he needed to befriend the others, if possible. The Société des Gens de Lettres, a group of renowned writers, would sponsor an upcoming commission of
Hugo and he wanted to be considered. For now, this private bust would make the perfect stepping stone in his studies.

Auguste inhaled a breath of razor-sharp air and knocked. A servant admitted him and led him through the house. Burnished mahogany, cherry, and walnut furniture filled each room. He had heard Hugo had a penchant for antiques and even carved furniture himself, and by the looks of it, the rumors were true. Auguste paused to admire the dovetailed corners of an exquisite table in the study and an ornately carved lattice mounted on the library wall. Chandeliers of Murano glass, burgundy wallpaper and silk drapes, decorative dishes and handiwork covered every centimeter of wall and ceiling, and rich Oriental carpets blanketed the floors. The man had expensive taste—quite the opposite of Auguste’s own humble abode. He spent his every penny on his ateliers.

“Follow me
,
monsieur,” the servant said, motioning him forward.

The tinkle of glassware and the hum of voices drifted from the salon. Auguste slipped into the room unnoticed, amid famed writers and socialites.

Monsieur Hugo cradled a glass of what looked to be sherry in his hand. From the side, Auguste might be able to sketch his profile. He spied a chair in the corner of the room and headed toward it.

“Not so fast,
mon ami
,” Edmond Bazire said, eyes merry with the excitement of his company, and perhaps the sherry. “I’d like to introduce you.”

“Of course.” Auguste followed Bazire around the room, greeting various guests. When they made their way to Hugo’s side, his heart bumped a rapid pace in his chest.

“May I present Auguste Rodin, brilliant sculptor, at your service,” Bazire said.

“
Bonsoir
.” Monsieur Hugo’s pale eyes had the watery film that came with age, his wrinkles deepened when he spoke, and a heavy frown perched atop his brow, leaving Rodin little doubt as to his feelings toward him. “I have not had a pleasant experience with artists and I refuse to remain in one position.” The hand that clutched his glass shook slightly. “I hope that is clear.”

“Quite, monsieur,” Auguste said. “I will be as invisible as breath. You’ll not hear me, nor see me if I can help it.” Yearning to immortalize the great man burned in his veins.

“Excuse me.” Hugo moved toward Juliette Drouet, his lover of fifty years.

Rodin had heard Juliette appeared less and less often at her salon and not in public at all. Her illness prevented it, and given the pallor of her skin and the protruding bones in her cheeks, he did not doubt it.

Swiftly, he moved to a chair opposite Hugo, pulled cigarette papers from his pocket, and put pencil to paper.

Camille deepened a groove in the collarbone of her
Madame B
bust. Soon it would be complete, just in time for the May Salon. Monsieur Rodin had already told her he would enter it under his tutelage in a very coveted spot. She hummed a tune Louise had played every evening these past weeks. Though melancholy, the notes of the beautiful melody crept into her sketches. She admired her sister’s musical abilities, despite their avoidance of each other, and had even bought her a new book of sheet music to encourage her playing.

Rodin sat at her studio table, drawing. He had come a day earlier than his typical Friday this week, though she tried not to read into his behavior. In the months since they had met, he had missed three sessions, all days Camille could recall with anxiety. Why did his presence mean so much to her?

Because she thought of him at night.

Rodin looked up as if he had heard her thoughts. She diverted her eyes to her piece.

“I have been to Victor Hugo’s home,” he said, his voice raspy from working many hours in silence.

Camille tossed her tool on the tabletop and dropped into a chair. “Oh? And you’ve come to brag, have you?” She smiled to soften the blow of her biting words.

“Is that how you view me, mademoiselle?” Monsieur Rodin’s voice was soft, disappointed.

She grinned. “I view you as you are. A gentle man, contemplating something most serious. Perhaps a little divertissement is in order.”

“Camille, really,” Emily said, her tone incredulous. “Have you lost your manners?”

“Monsieur Rodin has visited us for months now,” Camille said. “He knows my temperament.”

“I am learning.” A smile touched his lips. “You are a spirited and engaging woman.”

“What is life without spirit? Passion drives an artist, wouldn’t you agree?”

A fierceness filled his eyes, and he captured her in his gaze. She warmed to his sudden intensity. What she wouldn’t give to read his thoughts! To stroke his beard and gauge his reaction.

He looked down, breaking the tension, and pushed his sketch away. “I’ll begin with clay next week, but I’m frustrated by my lack of time with Hugo. He is not a fan of artists, or sculptors at the very least.”

“I’m certain you will do a fine job.” Camille walked to the desk and covered his hand with hers—an apology for her tart comments, a reassurance of her faith in his ability.

Monsieur Rodin studied her face with such concentration, she shifted away from him. The man absorbed her thoughts, her spirit.

Emily cleared her throat. “Should we go to the park? I would like to do a bit of sketching outdoors.”

“The Luxembourg?” Camille asked.

“Let’s,” Rodin said.

Camille dried an array of wire end tools, knives, and chisels, wrapped them in cloth, and tied the bundle with string. She tossed it into her bag and glanced at the visiting student once more. Professor Moreau had sung the young woman’s praises that morning in front of the class; Jessie Lipscomb had won two prizes from the Royal College of Art, a prestigious school in London: the National Silver Medal and the Queen’s Prize. Now she sought real art instruction in Paris, a land that opened more doors to women. Camille couldn’t help but wonder how impressive Jessie’s work really was. She swallowed a lump of jealousy. It was silly to worry about another artist’s work. Jessie’s fine sculptures did not diminish the quality of her own. But the professor had never breathed a word of admiration about
her
work.

Camille watched the Englishwoman as the remaining students cleaned their stations and filed into the corridor. Jessie wore her tightly
curled hair in a chignon, and stood tall in a pearl gray costume with a blouse corsage, typical of English styling. Camille did not have a particular eye for fashion, but Louise had spoken of nothing else since they had moved to Paris.

As Professor Moreau spoke with Jessie, Camille slid her sketchbook into her satchel and pretended not to stare. If only she were closer to make out their conversation.