Rodin's Lover (11 page)

“Mademoiselle Claudel?” Professor Moreau motioned for her to join them near the door. “I would like you to meet Mademoiselle Lipscomb. As you heard, she is a medal winner.”

Camille’s grip on her satchel tightened. He need not remind her of the medal. She forced a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“How do you do?” Jessie smiled, transforming her plain features. She looked the sort who rarely smiled. Life was a serious matter—a sentiment evident in her drawn features and folded hands, the gray and brown hues of her day dress.

“You two may learn from one another,” the professor said. “Your styles and subjects are different, but you both possess strengths unlike any students I have ever taught.”

Camille tingled at the praise.

Monsieur Moreau flipped a hat onto his head. “Now, if you will excuse me, ladies. I am off.”

“Congratulations on your award,” Camille said.

“Thank you. I am thrilled to be in Paris.” Jessie’s pale cheeks glowed. “I am surrounded by such talent and excitement! I could walk the museums and parks all day.” She dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly realizing she had shown too much zeal.

Without doubt, Mademoiselle Lipscomb was an Englishwoman.

“Professor Moreau tells me you have an atelier,” Jessie continued. “Would you care to share your work? I would be honored to see it.”

Camille smiled. She decided that instant she liked Jessie’s humble yet direct nature. With a swift motion, she threaded her arm through the Englishwoman’s. “I would be happy to show you my work, but I am starved. Would you care to dine with me at home first?”

Jessie blinked, surprised at Camille’s overt gesture. She shifted uncomfortably. “My aunt is waiting for me in the hall.”

“You are both welcome. Mother will be thrilled to meet a new
friend. Particularly a lady artist with proper manners.” A wry smile crossed her face.

“We would be most grateful to dine with you,” Jessie said.

Camille’s smile widened at Jessie’s formality. “Off we go.”

After only a month in Paris, Jessie departed for England with a promise to return. Camille was dismayed at her friend’s leaving. They had gotten on well; their love of art was the strongest bond between them, as well as their temperaments.

When Jessie’s first letter arrived by post, Camille opened it with haste, slitting the skin on her index finger. “Ouch!” A drop of blood rose to the surface. She suckled the small wound while reading the letter.

Jessie spoke of returning! Camille strode into the salon.

“Mother, she wants to move in with us!”

“By
she
, I presume you mean Mademoiselle Lipscomb?” Mother stuck her needle into the frilly skirt of her pincushion doll and finished the last of her tea. “Her mother doesn’t mind sending her daughter across the channel to stay in a stranger’s home?”

“Everyone who wants to become an artist moves to Paris, even women.” Camille refilled Mother’s teacup.

“I cannot be responsible for her welfare.” Mother added a sugar cube and stirred. “I am sorry, Camille, but she’ll have to find another place to stay.”

Must Mother fight her at every turn? She had enjoyed Jessie and her aunt’s company immensely. The only thing that might change Mother’s mind . . .

“She will pay rent,” Camille said. “Her sums will help with the expenses of the atelier, and our apartment.”

Mother’s dull expression perked up. Camille knew she could not resist additional income.

“Papa will be delighted to have some of the pressure relieved.” Camille could not hide her smile. She knew she had her.

“Louis-Prosper would be pleased,” Mother mused aloud. “Especially to give you a regular lady escort and artist friend.” She let out a long sigh. “Very well. I will write to her mother and arrange it immediately.”

Camille jumped up from her place on the settee and embraced her mother’s stiff form. For once they could agree.

A servant placed the final course of fruit and cheese on the table before Auguste and company, while another poured champagne. He never ate Monsieur Hugo’s food; he did not wish to disrupt the gentleman’s elegant meals, and he certainly did not expect to be fed. Yet despite his delicacy, he received increasing weary looks each time he returned to the Rue d’Elyau. Tonight, Auguste nearly lost his calm when Jules Dalou not only entered the room, but conversed easily with Victor Hugo and his guests. How had Jules managed to count the clan among his friends so quickly?

“How are you this fine evening?” Jules asked, sidling up next to him at the table. “I have been invited to dinner again next week, and drinks with a few men from the Gens de Lettres. It seems the old man has taken a liking to me.”

Auguste willed himself to control his emotion. “How nice for you.”

“Hugo complimented my work. Perhaps they will consider me for their commissions.” He swigged from his wineglass. “How are your sketches coming along?”

“Fine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Auguste wanted to knock the haughty expression off his face, but instead, he bent over his cigarette paper to sketch the top of Hugo’s head. A sketchbook at the table would be far too intrusive, though he wished he could use one now. His studies had advanced enough that he needed more detailing. He observed the writer intently to imprint his measurements and mannerisms on the folds of his mind. Without a proper sitting, this was the only way.

Monsieur Hugo drank from his goblet. His eyes drooped at the corners, his cheeks sagged, and grief etched lines around his drawn mouth. Juliette Drouet would pass soon, and all joy had drained from the household.

With a stroke of his thumb, Auguste smudged the circles under Hugo’s eyes on his sketch, and darkened the eye sockets. He sympathized with the man’s struggle to retain his composure.

In a swift and violent gesture, Hugo pounded his fist on the table, rattling the dishes atop it.

Auguste dropped his pencil. Jules looked startled, as did everyone else
à table
. All conversation lulled and Hugo’s guests turned to face him.

“Stop staring at me,” Monsieur Hugo said, his voice gruff. Despite his eighty-one years, his menacing tone made everyone squirm in their seats.

“Monsieur—” a gentleman at the table began.

“You.” Hugo pointed at Rodin. “Stop staring at me! I am not a circus animal or some science experiment. You capture my pain on paper as if it pleases you.”

Auguste stiffened. “Monsieur? I assure you it does not please me. I apologize—”

“What the devil takes so long?” The creases in Hugo’s forehead deepened. “I look the same today as yesterday!” He stood, bumping the table. His plate chinked against his goblet and it tipped.

Edmond’s hand shot out and righted the crystal glass just in time. “An artist’s work takes time and diligence, something you are well versed in yourself, Monsieur Hugo,” he said. He looked quickly at Auguste, an apology in his eyes, and back to Hugo. “But perhaps you would like time alone? We are more than happy to oblige.”

Jules refused to make eye contact, though the telltale lift of his chin meant he had abandoned the bonds of friendship to side with his idol.

To be seen as a pest made Auguste ill, as did Dalou’s betrayal. He wanted to immortalize the great man, but he possessed integrity. He captured a subject’s pain in his art so another might find beauty in man’s struggle and not feel alone—not to delight in it. If Hugo did not understand his intentions, he must go.

“Get out. All of you! And you”—Hugo directed his ire at Auguste—“your work is finished.” Monsieur Hugo threw down his serviette and strutted from the room.

Rodin flushed in embarrassment and anger.

Dalou paled. “How dreadful. I’m sorry, Auguste.”

“He isn’t himself,” Edmond attempted to reassure him.

Auguste stood, his face still aflame. He wanted to tear into the ass
who had ruined his chances with Hugo. The previous artist must have been dreadfully unprofessional.

A footman appeared with Rodin’s coat and hat. “Your things, monsieur.”

“Good evening, everyone.” Auguste nodded at Edmond and the stunned diners, and quickly departed from the room and the apartment.

A wall of rain greeted him, soaking the passage walk and streaming down the arched roof. Auguste popped open his umbrella and joined the sea of black-and-navy-clad pedestrians shuffling to their destinations. Hugo had no right to be so rude to him—he had kept his promise. Still, he could never fault a man in such pain. The old man watched life’s breath trickle from his lover’s lips and the night close in around her.

To lose one’s great love must be the most acute, exquisite pain.

Auguste sloshed through a puddle, drenching his shoes and trousers. The tunnel of death loomed for Hugo, too. The inevitable slip of time weighed on a man’s soul.

A vision of Auguste’s father with gaunt face and gray skin vibrated in his memory. Those final days before Papa’s death had leeched his spirit, and were a horror to behold. Even a strong man would wither in this life and meet his maker. He moved his umbrella to the side and let the cold rain wash over his face. He must seize his passions while he had the time, and allow emotion to flood his soul, feel the rain on his face. Taste the sweet fruit of elusive love. Such precious, short time there was.

J
essie returned to Paris and joined the atelier at Notre Dame des Champs. The months slipped by in an easy rhythm. Camille admired the way her friend adapted to her new home and fell into the same arduous work routine as hers. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she had a true friend who understood her, other than her brother. Emily, by contrast, had appeared less and less often at the atelier—and classes—and rarely helped with bills.

One spring afternoon, the ladies strolled through a park with Rodin along patches of manicured lawn and rows of hedges. Camille bent to stroke the satin petals of a pink tulip, her strong hands turning gentle, then snapped the flower’s head from its stem to twirl it between her fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” Jessie said, pushing aside a tree branch heavy with buds. “You aren’t to pick them.”

“They won’t miss one.” Camille took a seat on a nearby bench to soak in the spring sunshine.

Jessie sat beside her. “I prefer peonies. My mother’s garden is full of them. And roses.”

Rodin joined them, but he focused on the passersby instead of the flowers. After several moments, he squinted and adjusted his position. “There,” he said. “Do you see the gentleman in the Homburg hat speaking with the lady in the flowered dress?” He opened his sketchbook. “The movement of his jaw, and his neck muscles, straining as he
leans closer to her.” His hand moved over the paper in swift strokes, though his eyes never left his subject. A charcoal outline of a body appeared, then a head with cords of muscle pulsing along the neck and shoulders.

Camille gazed at his hands, his face. She marveled at his concentration.

“You must capture it—not just the musculature, but the life that feeds it,” Rodin continued. He sketched another figure similar in scale, still without looking down, as if the image had burned into his mind. After he’d finished, he rooted through his satchel and retrieved a lump of clay. In a few short minutes, he shaped a maquette between his thumb and forefinger and the man’s form emerged.

Camille flipped open her sketchbook, but rather than drawing the man, she outlined the woman—the fervor in her expression, the laughing mouth, the joyful twirl of her white silk parasol dotted with black spots.

“Oh, she’s lovely,” Jessie said, peering over Camille’s shoulder. “Brava. Her expression is perfect.”

“I’m sure her companion hasn’t noticed her expression,” Camille said. “He can think of nothing but her ample bosom.”

Jessie covered her mouth with a gloved hand and laughed. “You do love to shock us, don’t you?”

“I speak the truth.” Camille smudged the folds of the stenciled gown with her thumb.

Rodin watched her sketch. When she looked up, she searched his face for an answer—did he approve? He stroked his coppery beard in silence.

“Well? What is wrong with it?”

“Not a single thing. In fact, it’s excellent. A perfect sketch, slavish devotion to your work . . . I think, mesdemoiselles, it is time.”

Camille set her shopping basket on the dining table next to Papa.

“I’ve bought some things,” she said, unloading her items one by one. “Flowers to brighten the room for Mother. And for you, a new tin of your favorite tobacco and some chocolate biscuits.”

“Generous of you, dear girl, but why the gifts?” Papa looked up from his newspaper.

“A thank-you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “For the atelier, and for believing in me.”

“I am pleased to see you happy.” He slurped tea from a petite porcelain cup etched with bluebells and silver vines.

Camille plopped down in a chair and wrung her hands in her lap. She had something else to tell Papa. “I need to speak with you.” She poured her own
tasse
of tea to busy her hands.

He removed his spectacles. “What is it,
chérie
?”

Mother breezed into the room humming a Chopin tune.

Camille stilled. Mother wore an evening gown in chartreuse silk with lace appliqué on the sleeves and neck. Her skin looked sickly next to the yellow-green fabric, and she reeked of lavender perfume. Camille stared, awestruck, as she touched her hair, fastened with a
cache-peigne
. The looped ribbons dangled from the decorative comb onto her shoulder.

Not only did Mother very rarely dress for an occasion, but she never wore rouge. This morning she had painted her cheeks heavily enough for two.

“You’re dressed for the theater.” Camille glanced at her father’s equally incredulous expression. “Are you going somewhere?” She seemed . . . odd today.

“Must you always criticize me?” Mother’s bright mood turned stormy in an instant, like a blustery autumn sky. “Such a negative child.”

“It was a simple observation,” Camille said.

“You were saying, my dear?” Papa asked, diverting the conversation, though his brow creased with concern at his wife’s strange behavior.

Camille chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t want to share the news in front of Mother, but she may as well be out with it. “You have heard of the sculptor Monsieur Auguste Rodin?” she said. “The tutor Boucher appointed.”

“I have read reviews of his work from time to time.” Papa leaned forward in anticipation. “Does he like your work?”

“Very much. He invited Jessie and me to join his atelier on the Rue de l’Université. We are the only female students to work with him.”

Papa sprang from his seat and cradled her face in his hands. “
Mon amour!
” He pulled her into a tight embrace. “I knew it! I knew they’d see your talent one day.”

Excitement fluttered in her stomach. If she had Papa’s blessing, she could accept, and it was a good thing, because she already had. “Thank you, Papa.”

“It is an all-male atelier?” Mother said, her voice an octave too high.

“You know how few women have had the opportunity to develop their talents.”

“Except you, of course.” Mother cleared dishes from the table. The china rattled in her shaking hands. “Camille, the genius child.” She said her name as if it were a disease, then let the dishes crash to the floor.

Corinne, the maid, scurried into the kitchen at the alarming sound of breaking china. Her jaw dropped when she saw Mother’s attire.

“What is the matter with you?” Papa clenched his hands into fists. “Your daughter may promote the reputation of this family. She may very well influence the art world. Why are you so ungrateful, woman? She has been given a gift.
We
have been given a gift!”

“She humiliates us, cavorting with those self-important fools. They put filthy ideas in her head and now you allow her to work with them. In the company of whores who remove their clothes for money! That does
not
promote our reputation.” She clasped Camille by the shoulders and shook her. “You’ll be a whore, too!” Her lips pulled back to reveal gritted teeth, like those of a growling canine.

“Let go of me!” She tried to pry Mother’s viselike grip from her arms.

Papa wrenched his wife away. “Get hold of yourself, woman!”

With a huff Mother yanked on her gown to straighten it. “I’ve received a letter from Monsieur Bertillion.”

Now Camille understood why she was so livid.

“He is no longer interested in courting our ‘lovely daughter,’ but wishes her the best of luck with her art. I assume he was put off by her skipping his calls to the house.”

“I didn’t want to marry him, Mother.” Camille sniffed.

“You ungrateful wench!” Mother lunged toward her once more. Camille ducked and Mother stumbled over the leg of a dining chair.

Papa caught her around the middle. “Stop this at once!”

“You love her more!” Mother screeched. “You’ve always loved her more than any of us—your other children, even me.” She dissolved to the floor in a weeping pile of expensive silk.

Camille rubbed her arms, eyes wide. How had she been born from such a woman? Had she gone mad? She would never be like her, Camille swore to herself.

The following week, Jessie and Camille stood on the Rue de l’Université across from Rodin’s famed atelier, the Dépôt des Marbres. Iron balconies jutted from windows in the building’s stone facade, and an array of workers streamed in and out through the double doors, their shoes and trousers covered in dust. Sunlight burst through the cloud cover and Camille smiled.

“Here we are.” She clasped Jessie’s hand. Beyond the opportunity, she could hardly wait to work alongside Rodin, though she would never say so aloud.

“I am anxious to begin,” Jessie said.

Two men hauled a block of white marble indoors.

“We’ll have less time for our own pieces. That’s my largest concern.”

Jessie squeezed her hand. “But just think! We might have a chance to show at Salon with Monsieur Rodin at our side. And we will be paid.”

Camille nodded absently. A kernel of fear lodged in the pit of her stomach. Their association with Rodin might also mean their identities as artists would blur. Still, the opportunity could not be missed. She had learned so much in the year since she had met him.

They followed a pair of assistants inside. The odor of clay and resin permeated the air, and the enormous space echoed with the sounds of artists hard at work. At least two dozen apprentices scurried about in their splattered trousers and smocks; several bent over a bucket of plaster, while others sawed pieces for a wooden base, or twisted metal frames to support a protruding limb. Two nude models perched on a platform, their posed forms as graceful as ballerinas. A select few
workers chipped away at a hunk of marble, a skill reserved for the best of artists.

Camille longed to work with marble, but the material was too expensive to practice upon. She glanced at Jessie and saw a reflection of her own bewilderment on her features. How had Rodin created such an operation? He must have more private commissions than he could complete. Hardly an artist alive owned such a large work space with so many apprentices. She clasped and unclasped her hands. Why was she so anxious? She cursed herself for her weakness.

A man with overgrown facial hair and a blocky body shouted, “Are you coming in or not?”

“He looks like a woolly mammoth,” Camille whispered to Jessie.

Jessie laughed. “What on earth is that?”

“You haven’t heard of the elephant creatures covered in hair?” She had read not only mythology and literature as a child, but anything about science as well. In fact, she read almost anything when not sculpting.

A man whistled in appreciation as they passed. Camille glared at him and he laughed.

“No need to be prudish, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll be naked on the stand soon enough.”

“
Je suis sculpteur
, and you are an ass.”

He laughed again, revealing brown teeth. “Did you hear that?” He snorted and a glob of mucus flew from his nostril. “We’ve a lady sculptor on our hands.”

A chorus of male voices murmured; a few whistled. “She’s a pretty one. I’ll have her, Alain. You can have the other.” The rail of a man named Alain guffawed.

Another man rearranged his manhood in a lewd gesture. “She’ll join the likes of the rest.”

Jessie’s jaw fell open in shock. “I beg your pardon!”

“It seems, Mademoiselle Lipscomb,” Camille said, projecting her voice loud enough to be heard, “that we’ve joined the house of apes, though they have fewer brains among them.”