Rodin's Lover (14 page)

Rodin could make such a declaration because he had so many commissions, Camille thought. His list of admirers grew by the day.

The carriage stopped in front of the Salon de Champs-Élysées. Gentlemen milled about in elegant suits decked with silk ascots, beaver-felt top hats, and dress coats with swallowtails. The ladies hurried indoors to escape the light rain, resplendent in silk, their sleeves adorned with ruche detailing or frilly ribbons.

“Look at all their lovely hats,” Jessie said, touching her rather plain one.

Women sported miniature derbies, porkpie hats, or the newly fashionable tall felts trimmed with flowers, feathers, or lace.

“What a crowd.” Camille swallowed hard. She had not expected so many people to attend. Suddenly she wished she could hide in the
private confines of her studio. She did not enjoy being in a room full of people. Her fingers itched to sketch or mold, or even hammer at a block of granite—anything to calm her nerves. What if the critics despised
Giganti
? She must begin her career on the right foot. She looked frantically to Rodin.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his eyes sympathetic.

Camille smiled bravely. He must have learned to enjoy these events, though she knew he preferred the solitude of his studio as well.

“My work will be at the next Salon,” Jessie said emphatically. “I will do everything in my power to be here.”

“Of course you will,” Camille said, squeezing Jessie’s hand.

Monsieur Rodin took a lady on each arm.

The evening flew by in a blur of clinking glasses and light chatter that grew louder as the night wore on. Camille and Jessie floated from one piece to another, scrutinizing each.

“I like this one,” Jessie said, stopping before a sculpture of a woman in full gown and hat.

“You prefer the realist tradition, I see. They are similar to your own pieces.”

Jessie nodded.

Camille recognized the beauty in the same pieces, but found them rather dull. She preferred the more radical approach in her own work: to adapt proportions of the human form to reflect the emotion she wanted to convey—just as the Impressionists, as the painters called themselves, demonstrated an altered view of reality. She admired that quality about the painters’ vision.

“I am going for another turn through the main room,” Jessie said. “Care to come?”

“I think I’ll head over to
Giganti
again, to observe the viewers.” She cracked a smile. “I will meet you later.”

Camille watched the wealthy patrons flit about, critiquing her bust as well as several studies for
The Gates of Hell
by her own Rodin. She put her fingertips to her lips.
Her
Rodin? She glanced around the room quickly. Had anyone heard her thoughts? No one had the slightest idea who she was, she reminded herself. Right? She scanned the room again.

Rodin stood across from a sculpture of a warrior dressed in helmet
and sandals, grasping a sword, the muscles in his forearm flexed from the weight of the steel he carried. The statue had been fashioned in the classical Roman style and was technically perfect, but lacking in spirit like the dozens of others she had seen. It was a wonder Camille had been asked to be in the Salon at all, with such repetitive samples in the showing. She sipped from her wineglass. At least the wine was good. She looked from one unknown face to the next and wondered where Jessie had stolen off to—probably with the English couple she had met earlier in the evening.

A beautiful woman in a sparkling gown with a low neckline approached Rodin. She laughed and touched her earlobe in a coquettish fashion, then brushed away a gold curl from her forehead. Rodin appeared enthralled by their conversation. He leaned closer to the woman, his lips so very near her ear.

Camille’s mouth went dry. She had put off his subtle advances, and yet, she could not stand the sight of him in another woman’s presence. She drained the last drops from her glass and set it on the base of a nearby Madonna.

An elegant woman in rose brocade sneered at her obvious lack of respect.

Camille glared back. She had seen one hundred Madonnas. This one was not so distinguished and neither was it well crafted, but it had been made by a man and that is why it had been accepted. Camille selected another
vin rouge
from an attendant’s tray. It must be so easy to be a man. But she would show them all. This Salon was only the beginning for her.

She returned to
Giganti
and retreated to a nook just within eyesight of it. Two gentlemen stood before the bust, measuring its worth.

“I wonder what he is thinking.” The man with the square head and thick black hair leaned in for a closer view. “Don’t you agree? It’s magnificent.”

“It looks as if it was made by an amateur,” the other said, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his crooked nose. “The detailing is all wrong.”

Camille felt as if she had been struck in the gut. An amateur would not show at the most prestigious Salon in Paris.

“I disagree,” the dark-haired man replied. He leaned closer to the
bust. “Look at his eyes. It’s as if he is being consumed by some inner sorrow, yet he juts out his chin proudly, to ward off the next offense that might come his way.”

A rush of gratitude filled her heart. Camille wanted to embrace the gentleman.

The tall man shrugged. “It looks like one of Rodin’s castoffs.” He sauntered away.

Camille bit back an unexpected wave of tears. She was accustomed to Mother’s rebukes, but not those from strangers and certainly not from those who might attack her work. The man’s words stung more than she had anticipated.

The dark gentleman looked over his shoulder at her. “What do you think this
Giganti
is thinking?”

Camille buried her wound and put on a brave smile. “I cannot share his secrets, monsieur.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You are the artist?” His eyes dropped from her face to her bare shoulders and neck. “Mademoiselle Claudel?”

“
C’est moi.
”

“I am Joseph Archambault.” He tipped his head forward in a polite gesture.

“Are you an artist as well?”

“Of sorts. I am a composer.”

Though he was not attractive, the gentleman’s intelligent gaze appealed to her. Besides, he possessed a refined taste in sculpture. She smiled, suddenly thankful for the distraction from both the harsh criticism and the blonde in the sparkling gown, who still held Rodin’s attention.

“I should like to hear one of your melodies, monsieur,” she said, feigning a chipper mood.

Rodin turned his head that moment and found her face across the room. A sense of recklessness enveloped her. She tilted her head toward Monsieur Archambault.

“Do you need to join your tutor?” The composer had not missed Rodin’s glance. “Monsieur Rodin?”

The burn returned, and an unfamiliar ache. The sparkling woman had glued herself to his side. “No.” She choked on the emotion welling inside her. “Not at all.”

“I would be honored to escort you on a turn through the Salon, Mademoiselle Claudel, artiste extraordinaire.” He smiled.

She took his arm. “That would be lovely.”

As they paraded through the hall, Camille tried to listen to the gentleman but could not focus on his words. In the doorway to one of the adjoining rooms, she paused to dare one last glance in Rodin’s direction. He had gone.

He would abandon her on her first showing for that woman? She frowned as jealousy swarmed her unsettled stomach.

A
dèle and Giganti sat entwined on their base per Camille’s instruction. She had been working feverishly on an idea that had awakened her in the middle of the night three months before. The night it came to her, she had lit a candle in her bedroom, enraging her sister at the ungodly hour, and padded down the stairs to the salon. Under the halo of a solitary lamp, she had sketched the Indian princess Shakuntala, once abandoned by her husband and lover, the King. Unbeknownst to the princess, her husband was bewitched. When the spell broke many years later, he returned to her on his knees, his heart full of longing and remorse. The pain of the past melted away at their reunion and their spirits rejoined as if never parted. Camille would show Shakuntala’s forgiveness, the couple’s sacred bond.

She peered at her nearly life-size maquette. This piece would be nothing like the others shown at Salons. A nude couple, slave to their love and desire, would rock the foundations of the Société des Artistes Français. She might very well be thrown out for it . . . or she may be revered. No other woman had designed such a risqué piece. Excitement pinged around her stomach each time she thought of the work’s potential success.

Camille pinched a coil that would become Shakuntala’s hair.

Jessie looked up from her own piece, a young girl in a fanciful hat. “Do you think Emily will rejoin us? She has not been by in weeks.” She cleaned the excess clay off the end of her tool.

“I doubt it. She has skipped out on her share of the rent. Besides, she talked of being homesick.” Camille sniffed. A friend run off without a proper good-bye—this was why she rarely expended the effort to cultivate her friendships. They always failed her. But she was so thankful for Jessie. With a sudden burst of gratitude, she crossed the room and kissed her friend on the cheek.

Jessie laughed. “What was that for?”

“For being a lovely friend.”

Jessie smiled. “You mean unlike Emily?” She selected another tool on her worktable. “I think she’s gone back to England.”

“Perhaps, or maybe she joined another atelier.”

Both Camille and Jessie had abandoned their lessons at l’Académie Colarossi when they became employees for Monsieur Rodin, so they did not know if Emily had attended class. But what could be better instruction than working with a master?

“I am surprised she did not tell us her plans,” Jessie said, frowning.

Camille shrugged.

Adèle scratched her nose, then rested her arm at an incorrect angle, too close to Giganti’s head.

Camille sighed heavily and adjusted the model’s arm to its intended place. Adèle did not like her but had agreed to pose with Giganti for the right price—and at Rodin’s request. It had taken additional persuasion to get the model to pose in her atelier. Camille could not tell if Adèle detested taking orders from a woman or if she felt uncomfortable being examined by one. In a man’s eyes, Adèle was an object of desire; in a woman’s, she was only an object.

“I need to be finished by one o’clock,” Adèle said. “Auguste will be expecting me.” She squirmed on her perch.

Exasperated, Camille stamped her foot. “You will miss your appointment if you move again.” She didn’t care a whit for the model’s plans. Rodin had been locked in his office for days, poring over sketches to submit to a competition. He wouldn’t need Adèle’s services today. The model had lied to her. Not to mention, the hag had the audacity to use his first name. She dared not guess if they had been intimate, or she might throw the model into the street.

Camille rolled a pellet of clay between her hands and massaged it into place on the haunches of her male clay figure. Yet with such
familiarity, Adèle had no doubt slept with him. She mashed the clay a bit harder than intended, flattening the rump too much on one side. She huffed and threw her hands in the air. “Take a break,” she said. She could use an espresso, at any rate.

The pair of models stretched and slipped on their clothing, while Camille flexed her fingers.

“I’m headed home.” Jessie removed her gray smock. “Are you coming?”

Camille shook her head. She had no intention of suffering through lunch with Mother. She had been in the worst humor lately. Besides, Mother seemed to prefer Jessie to her, and she could not withstand her disdain again today.

A pounding came at the atelier door. Giganti moved wordlessly to answer.

Rodin appeared, his eyes red, his beret knocked askew. He all but sprinted toward Camille, sketchbook under his arm.

“Is there something wrong?” Camille asked.

“I need to speak to you privately,” Auguste said, slightly out of breath. He needed to talk to her immediately; it couldn’t wait.

Giganti ran a hand through his hair and pulled on a hat. “To the brasserie I go. When you are finished here, would you like to join me, Camille?”

She nodded.

“
Perfetto
.” Giganti smiled.

“Are we meeting today at one o’clock, Auguste?” Adèle twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger. “I canceled a rendezvous to meet with you.”

Auguste looked at Adèle as if she were a stain on a newly pressed shirt. “You may go,” he said. “I am occupied this afternoon.”

The model sniffed, her discouragement plain. “Very well. But I am busy all week.” Without a second glance, she left, slamming the door behind her.

Auguste grunted. Models could be so self-indulgent. Camille stifled a laugh.

“I will return in a couple of hours.” Mademoiselle Lipscomb threw her smock over a chair. “Good day, Monsieur Rodin.”

Silently, he nodded. Once Jessie had gone, he gave Giganti a pointed look. “Please excuse us.” Giganti winked at Camille and disappeared through the door.

Auguste dropped his sketchbook on the table and picked up a hunk of clay. He rolled it between his palms into coils, then made a figure in the matter of minutes.

“What is it?” Camille said.

In silence, he continued until he finished a fifth man, slightly leaner than the others, and placed them in a triangular arrangement. After some time he said, “I am to present my idea for a new commission.”

“I have noticed your absence this week.”

A thread of hope began to throb inside him. She had noticed? He forced himself to focus on his figures. “The town of Calais is going to demolish its medieval fortress walls to join the
vieux quartier
with the new development,” he said. “They want to install a monument as a marker. One that honors the martyr Eustace Saint-Pierre.”

“Yes, I know the story,” she said. “He and five others forfeited their lives to King Edward of England so their city would not be destroyed.”

Camille knew the history of Calais? He shouldn’t be surprised; he noticed she read very often. When he flipped open his sketchbook, Camille stood beside him, close enough for the scent of amber and clay to envelop him. She moved closer still, to get a better look. The throbbing increased.

He cleared his throat. “What do you think of their arrangement?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. No man atop a horse, or in religious robes.” She peered at the maquettes and again at the pad.

“The men are marching to their doom.”

“Very clever,” she said. “I’m surprised the ministers have agreed to it. This pushes the boundaries of anything I’ve seen.”

The taut muscles in Auguste’s shoulders relaxed. Her approval washed away the pressure, the self-doubt with which he had wrestled the better part of the past two weeks.

“They haven’t agreed to it,” he said. “Not yet.”

Camille crouched so she was eye level with the figures’ arrangement. After several minutes, she eyed the sketch once more. “Something seems . . . off.” She moved the maquettes a hair farther apart and bent their bodies.

Auguste stroked his beard, his mind buzzing. The figures were united by their cause, their sacrifice.

“He is Eustace?” She pointed to the man nearest the center.

He nodded.

She moved him right of center, then shifted another figure slightly. “They are individuals, even if their destinies have collided.”

That was the missing piece! They were individuals, yet joined. Their forms needed to display as such.

Auguste picked up one of the clay men and bent his torso forward, as if he might collapse in grief. He pulled another’s shoulders back, making him proud of his own courage and willingness. He rotated them and widened the base; it would be square, rather than a pyramid.

“
C’est ça!
” she said, her excitement plain.

He lunged at her, wrapped his arms around her middle, and twirled her around. “That’s it!” She laughed and threw her arms about his neck. After another spin, he placed her on her feet. His hands lingered on her hips. The laughter died in her throat. He gazed at her with the intensity that pulsed in his veins. Her lips parted and a blush burned her ivory skin. The space between them seemed to vibrate.

“Well then, you have work to do,” she said. “As do I.”

“You are an inspiration,” he said in a throaty voice.

She gazed at him with her bewitching eyes. “It would be criminal for them to reject such a design. I can think of nothing more compelling.”

He squeezed her slightly. When she did not pull away, he leaned toward her and slid his hands slowly over her back. He felt the rapid thud of her heart on his palm.

She inched closer. “You could also—”

He silenced her with his lips. She pulled him closer and pushed hungrily against his mouth. A groan rumbled in his throat. Liquid heat surged through his limbs. The wall built long ago inside him melted with the softness of her lips.

In a swift movement, she tore away from him, gasping for air. “Did you say something?” She looked past him to the corners of the room and the windows, then rubbed her temples.

“No,” he whispered. The searing need to have her pounded against his will.

“A voice.” She whirled around to assure herself they were alone. “I heard a voice.”

He frowned. “There is no one here but us.”

“But I heard someone. I thought . . .” Her puzzled expression faded, but she maintained the distance between them.

“It must have been someone in the street. My dear, Camille,” he whispered. “Every inch of me is alive when you are near.” He closed the space between them once more and traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

She bristled at his touch. “Please. Just go.”

He regarded the wildness in her eyes, the fear quivering in her limbs. God, he ached for her—a gnawing, consuming ache that kept him from sleep. He ignored her plea and swept her into his arms once more.

“Leave me!” She pushed against him. “You care nothing for me. Only for my
jeunesse
.”

“My darling girl, if you only knew.”

“Let me go or I’ll scream!” Her voice grew savage.

Auguste released her as if she had bitten him. Embarrassment, then hurt crashed over him. She did not want him—and of course she did not! What was he thinking?

He gathered his pride and quit her studio at once.