Rodin's Lover (16 page)

On Dewavrin’s doorstep, Rodin inhaled a steadying breath. His lungs filled with salty air tinged with the musty odor of seaweed. He could smell the ocean from here, though he had never laid eyes on its glistening waves. He knew its beauty only from Monet’s paintings, but one day he would venture to the shore.

The handle rattled and a lock turned. A maid ushered him inside while another carried his valise to his room.

“Monsieur Rodin,” Dewavrin greeted him. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person. And this is Andre Calin, one of the ministers on the council.”

“Very good of you to come, monsieur,” Rodin said to Calin. “I am pleased to meet you both.”

Monsieur Calin’s expensive clothing did not hide his lumpy frame and scabrous skin. The poor bastard had probably never bedded a woman in his life.

“The feeling is mutual,” the councilman said.

“Shall we take our meal in the garden?” Dewavrin led them through a set of glass doors. “The breeze and shade will be more refreshing than this stifling room.”

The trio sat near a sweep of willow trees, which from a distance looked like a furry mop of hair. If Auguste were a painter, he would capture their unusual beauty.

The maid poured glasses of Chablis for each of them. “We are
serving moules frites, messieurs
.
We purchased fresh mussels early this morning.
”

“Very good. Thank you, Céline.” Dewavrin shooed her away.

Rodin took a sip of the refreshing Chablis, at once cool and crisp in his dry throat. “Tell me more about Calais. I am fascinated by medieval histories.”

An hour of polite conversation and Rodin felt himself grow restless. He scooped the last of the broth with a mussel shell and poured it into his mouth. The savory liquid spread over his tongue. He needed to talk about the monument, but did not want to rush the ministers.

After the gentlemen nibbled on a platter of cheeses, the maid poured an aperitif of Calvados, the region’s famed apple brandy.

Auguste cradled his aperitif in his hand, liquid courage to bolster his bravery. “I am happy to be here in Calais, the land and peoples that inspire the monument, on such a brilliant day.”

Monsieur Calin folded his hands and rested them on the tabletop with an official air. The mood of the conversation shifted with the gesture. “Tell me, what is your vision for the monument?” he asked. “I have seen the initial maquettes, and I must admit, I find the display rather curious. It is not at all what I envisioned.”

Auguste sat straighter in his chair. “I chose to display the figures in bondage so we might see their pain and sacrifice. The nobility in their acceptance of death.”

Calin ran his fingertip around the rim of his glass several times without speaking. “I think the choice is a mistake. They do not appear noble in prisoner’s clothing, but degraded and lacking in humanity.”

“Their clothing illustrates how death strips each one of us of our stations and titles, our accomplishments and failings. One who looks upon my burghers will not see the figures as bourgeois, farmers, or the poor, but as men, united in a cause to save their town.”

“Bourgeois clothing your onlookers can relate to, monsieur.”

“And they cannot relate to the men’s humility?” Rodin gripped his brandy glass. “I see we have different views.”

“Very. I’m afraid many of my council members are in agreement with me. The design you propose is revolutionary, monsieur.”

Auguste embraced the idea of revolution in sculpture. It was long overdue. He did not withhold the defensive note that crept into his
voice. “The maquette you have seen is a rough sketch and far from finished.”

“Yet I imagine the issues we have just discussed will remain the same?”

“I don’t see them as issues, but strengths,” Rodin said. He had lost other commissions and he had been mocked with
The Age of Bronze
. Now his skin had thickened, his place among artists more certain. He would not be bullied into a concept that lacked teeth.

Monsieur Calin laced his fingers together. “As I thought. And the square base you prefer will remain over the classic pyramid?”

“For this piece, yes.”

“You have chosen a design that breaks tradition in every way. You may see how difficult you are making things for yourself and the council?”

Anger crept along Auguste’s spine, but he knew he must restrain himself. Diplomacy won hearts. “I am an outlaw in the eyes of the art ministry,” he began, “and, it would seem, in yours as well. But I attempt to create my own masterpieces, not those as designated by the standards of the
école
. For that I will neither apologize nor alter my vision. I am the artist, monsieur, and a fine one at that. You must trust my instinct.”

Monsieur Calin wiped his weak chin with a napkin and pushed back from the table. “Well, gentlemen, I see we are at an impasse, and I must be on my way. Thank you for a delightful meal, Monsieur Dewavrin. And good luck to you, sir,” he said, nodding to Auguste.

“Good day,” Auguste replied. Monsieur Calin did not like his work, nor him, it seemed, but he would not beg for his acceptance. He must gain the commission another way.

“I will see you out.” Dewavrin followed his guest through the house.

Rodin looked out at the row of birch trees that marked the end of the property line. Their regal white bark and flittering leaves stood out in the sea of green. He would continue forward with his plan: see the town of Calais and find a location for the monument.

Dewavrin returned, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “I must apologize for him. You know I disagree. Your piece is magnificent, in my view. Even the painter Jean Cazin came to your defense. I know fellow artists speak out for one another at times, but he seemed very impassioned by your design.”

“I’m grateful for his aid,” Rodin said. He would owe Cazin a favor after this pledge of support.

Dewavrin went silent and watched a lark flutter about in a nearby tree.

“You have something to say.” Rodin perched on the edge of his chair. He knew by the man’s hesitance to speak, it was news he’d rather not hear. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. “What is it, Omer?”

“In the newspaper yesterday, the
Patriote
 . . .” He stroked his mustache. “Well, you know how Calin feels about your design. There are others. And now that I’m no longer mayor, they feel the need to make their opinions known.”

Auguste stuck out his chin. “This isn’t the first time my designs have been rejected—or ridiculed, for that matter.”

“Apparently one of the ministers has bent the ear of a local journalist. They’ve written a review of your design.” His eyes were contrite, but his paunchy cheeks puffed in indignation.

“May I?” Auguste held out his hand.

“Are you certain that’s best?”

“I read all of my reviews. Since the piece is not yet finished, I find it curious the council should feel so strongly already.”

He scanned the text. They had missed the point of his design completely, just as Calin had. In fact, it could have been Calin himself who had submitted the article.

“
Alors?
” Dewavrin asked.

“Their faces show ‘sorrow, despair, and endless depression.’” Rodin smacked the offensive newspaper with his hand. The noise spooked a robin searching for crumbs near their feet. It fled to the cover of the trees.

“My figures display a pain
si intense
,
si claire
, the councilors squirm in their seats. They feel their own cowardice when they view the disquiet of a man marching to his death.”

Dewavrin nodded. “It was a backhanded approach to knocking you out of the running for the commission.”

Auguste continued reading. “‘This doesn’t represent what the citizens wish to see.’ And how would they know? No one has had the chance to see it! ‘The cube shape is “graceless”!’” He tore the article
from the paper and stood. “No man is exalted when the spidery fingers of death grasp our souls and pull us to the underworld. These cowards cannot bear to face their own fate!”

“I apologize for their ignorance,” Omer said quietly.

Auguste met his gaze. “You need not apologize for them. I need a walk.”

He forged a path quickly through the grass. The bastards had used the media to oust him as a top contender.

Two could play at that game.

C
amille rolled the beaded fringe on her handbag between her thumb and forefinger. The baubles glittered each time the carriage passed beneath a streetlamp. She had borrowed Louise’s favorite handbag for the occasion—a writer’s salon across town. She couldn’t wait to introduce Paul to real writers. He had begun writing a play; no doubt he could use advice from experts.

She bumped her brother with her shoulder. “You’re quiet this evening. Aren’t you excited?”

“Do you know these people?” Paul’s voice cracked.

“You’re nervous.” She squeezed his hand in hers. “Stick close and I will introduce you to a few people. I don’t know many, but Giganti will meet us there.”

“Isn’t it uncouth to invite the hired help?” Paul asked.

“He isn’t just the ‘hired help’; he’s my friend. Besides, no one will know who he is. He’s likely to be in a back room with some other man.”

Paul cringed beside her. “You mean he is . . . he—”

“Is intimate with men? Yes.” A smile curved her lips. Her little Paul was growing up.

“I don’t know, Camille. Maybe I should sit in a bar and wait until you’re finished.”

She shot him a weary look. “Don’t you want to meet others who share your passion for writing?”

His brow furrowed. “I won’t have a thing to say to them.”

“You’re seventeen. You will figure it out.” She pinched his cheek. “It’s time to be a man.”

He swatted her hand away. “Then treat me like one.”

A balmy night breeze swirled around them in the hackney cab and Camille held her hat to her head. She felt a little guilty luring her brother to such a place. The last salon she had attended, Émile Zola had shown, followed by a pack of friends and fans. Everyone had gotten blistered on spirits and opium, herself included. She had even kissed a gentleman she didn’t know, though when she had closed her eyes, there was only one image, one sloping nose and pair of soft lips, one beard grazing her cheek that she’d imagined. She wrinkled her nose at the memory—the stranger had tasted of tobacco and Pernod, nothing at all like Rodin.

A nervous twitch worked its way into her hands. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. What if Rodin was there tonight? Her resolve not to be near him felt on shaky ground beneath dark skies and winking streetlamps, and plenty of booze that would be imbibed. She squeezed Paul’s knee with all her might.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?” He rubbed the sore spot where her thumb had dug into his flesh.

Why had she? She didn’t know, really. Emotion raged through her like a fire at times and she could not contain it. The thought of seeing Auguste tonight . . .

The hackney stopped in front of a nondescript yet elegant home on the outskirts of the Latin Quarter.

At the door, a maid escorted them inside.

Paul gasped.

The hall gleamed in Arabian tiles; cerulean, ochre, and goldenrod flowed into the form of a large peacock on the wall. Orbs of brass and stained glass swung overhead, casting a rainbow glow about the room. Silk curtains swathed the front windows and laughter erupted in the room beyond.

“Brilliant!” Paul squeezed Camille’s hand. “I’m already glad you made me come.”

She laughed. “Let’s get a drink.”

They wound through the crowd to a table laden with glasses and a
punch bowl filled with red liquid. Camille bent to sniff the concoction. Her nose burned from the sharp alcohol fumes. “The hair on my face is singed just from smelling that,” she said.

Paul laughed. “It looks frightful.”

Camille moved to the end of the table to take inventory of their choices. An array of glasses and bottles had been carefully laid out and a footman poised, prepared to pour.

“There is guignolet, a cherry liqueur which I adore, and some sort of brandy.” Camille pointed from one bottle to the other. “It’s probably Armagnac. And this”—she selected two pontarlier glasses from the final row—“is absinthe.”

“We will have absinthe,” she said to the footman.

“
Très bien
, mademoiselle.”

The footman poured a portion of absinthe into the bottom of the glasses. Next he placed a perforated spoon over the rim and set a sugar cube atop it. Paul watched intently as he poured cold water over the cube. The sugar dissolved slowly, turning the liquor in the glass to a murky green liquid. After a quick stir, the footman handed Camille her glass, then prepared Paul’s.

“You know I prefer brandy or beer,” Paul said.

Camille sipped from her pontarlier glass. “Just try it.”

“I don’t trust you. Your eyes are full of mischief.”

“Don’t be such a girl,” she said.

He glared at her and took a drink. He sputtered on the burning liquid.

“Push through the burn and your limbs will tingle. It’s a delicious feeling.”

He swigged from the glass again. “It tastes like a meadow.”

She smiled. “It’s floral, yes. Shall we?” She linked her arm through his and led him around the room.

Camille did not recognize a single person, but the alcohol emboldened her and she interrupted more than one conversation. She paused at the refreshment table to have her glass refilled.

“Excuse me, but did you say your name is Mademoiselle Claudel?” a Monsieur Jules Dalou asked. “You are Rodin’s student?”

“Yes,” she said, taking in his sunken cheeks and the challenge in his eyes.

The man studied her with interest and leaned closer, his hot breath on her cheek. “I am a sculptor as well. An old friend of Auguste’s. If you should find yourself in want of more reliable instruction . . .” His eyes fell upon her chest.

Camille shuddered inwardly at his lecherous look, yet met his gaze directly. “Monsieur Rodin is a fine tutor and, in truth, a friend. Please respect him in my presence.”

Monsieur Dalou gave her a sickly smile that did not touch his eyes. “He is my friend as well. I’ve known him for years.”

“It shows,” she said, her tone curt.

“If you will excuse us,” Paul said, leading her away.

“The nerve of that man!” she said. He had no interest in helping her unless she bedded him. If she did not know better, she would think him out for revenge against Auguste.

The remainder of the evening Camille wove through the crowd, watching for the face that was most dear. As the hours clicked by, she felt a mingled sense of relief and frustration—Rodin had not come. She plucked a tin of sugared lemon drops from the refreshment table. She would soothe her disappointment with sweets. It was best he had not come, at any rate. She had come to enjoy herself, not to spend her time trying to ignore him.

The voices grew louder and more animated with the passing of each hour. After finishing her absinthe, Camille coaxed Paul through a black silk drape used as a makeshift door to a room off the salon. A single lantern burned, rendering most of the room in shadow. A haze of smoke and the sweet flowery scent of opium permeated the small space. A man with whiskers and a loosened cravat puffed from a bamboo pipe coated with silver. Two couples petted each other openly in the far corners of the room, and a gentleman read a poem aloud from a pocket notebook. Everyone lounged on an array of silk pillows on the floor.

Camille watched Paul’s face with delight. He stared through hooded lids and his mouth lay open, his fourth glass of absinthe cradled in his right hand. She giggled. It was good for him, the relaxation. He spent far too much time fussing over his marks in school and his obsessive propriety. Yet judging by his stagger, she would need to get him home soon.

“I’ve never seen so many hedonists in my life!” Paul said loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Wait until I tell Marc.”

Camille smothered a laugh. Lovers on display, an opium den and its blackened souls therein—his new devout friend would lap up the lurid details. She guessed Marc was in love with Paul, but far too pious to act upon it. And a good thing; Paul fawned over their neighbor Cécile, though he tried to hide it.

Paul cupped a hand over his mouth and attempted a whisper. “Does that man have his hand down her dress?”

The poet paused in his reading to scowl at the offending party.

Paul stumbled forward and slammed his head on a beam jutting down from the low ceiling. “Damn!” Laughter floated through the room.

A gentleman sprawled across a vermillion pillow untangled himself from his position on the floor, jumped to his feet, and approached. A familiar face framed with dark curling hair emerged through the smoky haze.

“Camille! I thought you hadn’t come.” Giganti kissed her cheeks. “And you must be Paul?”

“Who are you?” Paul slurred his words.

Camille took the empty pontarlier glass from Paul’s hand. “We were just leaving.”

“No, no. Let’s stay.” Paul pitched forward. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. “I want another drink.”

Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “Like hell. I don’t need you vomiting on me on the ride home.”

“I’ll escort you.” Giganti tilted his head in Paul’s direction. “You may need some assistance.”

“You’re sure? I hate to take you away from a good party.”

“I prefer your company any day.” Giganti kissed her cheek.

Paul pushed aside the fabric and stumbled into the main room. They buffered him on either side and half-dragged him through the crowd.

“Let go of me!” He struggled against Camille’s grip. “I can walk!”

A chorus of laughter followed them. At last they reached the door and thrust him into the street. Giganti jogged to the end of the block and whistled at a line of hackney cabs parked outside a bustling dance
hall. One pulled from the line and he jumped inside. When it stopped, Giganti helped Paul into a seat.

Camille threw her arm around her brother. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow and all color drained from his face.

“
Allons-y
and hurry!” Giganti called to the driver.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let him drink so much in the first place. And the cigar didn’t help. But I couldn’t resist. He needed to enjoy himself.”

Paul groaned. “My head is spinning.”

“Deep breaths, man,” Giganti said. “Don’t lose it here.”

“If you
cons
vomit in my cab, you’ll pay triple!” the driver called over his shoulder. He snapped the reins, urging the horses to go faster.

The cart jerked forward and Paul fell into Camille, then slumped against her arm. She patted his hair. A little nap would take the edge off.

Giganti chuckled.

Twenty minutes later, they thundered down the Boulevard de Port-Royal. As the house drew nearer, Camille noted the darkened windows. No one had waited up for them and she was glad for it.

She shook Paul, but he didn’t stir. “Paul! We’re home!” She shook him once more.

“He’s out,” Giganti said.

“Whoa.” The driver slowed the horses and the carriage came to a halt. “Now, get out!” He leered at them, grease glistening on his face and hair, even in the dull lamplight. He probably hadn’t bathed in weeks.

“With pleasure!” Camille sneered. The man didn’t have to be such an ingrate.

They hauled Paul’s leaden body out of the cab. Just as they reached the front door, something moved in the dark to their left. Camille’s gaze darted to a nearby doorway. She gripped Paul’s arm tighter. Thieves did not usually loiter on this end of the street, but she knew they could be anywhere.

“Who’s there?” Giganti said.

A gentleman stepped out of the shadows. A familiar set of shoulders, a beret atop a serious face with flowing beard appeared.

Camille’s stomach dropped and her heart thudded in her ears.

Rodin waited for her in the dark.