Rodin's Lover (18 page)

“Come, Camille. You cannot really think I am jealous of you. You, who make others feel awkward with your antics, who pores over her work to the point of obsession. You must pace yourself, yet you do not seem to know how. And now Monsieur Rodin? Can you imagine how the poor woman he lives with must feel? You will be deemed—”

“I am finished with this conversation.” She turned on her heel and stalked back to the studio, her head ready to explode.

Jessie had some nerve. Camille did feel guilty, she must admit, but it was Auguste’s responsibility to discuss his affairs with his live-in lover, not hers. Besides, she could succeed with or without him if she chose to, on her own terms. She walked an extra block under the streetlamps and past darkened storefronts to calm her nerves. She clenched her hands into fists. Her time would come, and there would be plenty of commissions. She felt that truth course through her veins. People would know her name. She turned the final corner and headed toward her atelier.

But what if . . . what if Jessie were right? What if Auguste used her and cast her aside? She must leave him first.

The hollow thud of footsteps on stone echoed behind her. A chill ran over her skin and she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but shadowed buildings.

She dismissed her alarm. It was merely a gentleman returning home after a drunken evening, or perhaps a woman like Camille, eager to reach her destination.

A veil of mist clung to her skirts, her arms and face. Yet something felt odd. The buzzing grew louder and her head ached.

She increased her pace. The footsteps gained momentum in time with hers. Alarm raced down her spine. She could see her atelier door. Faster, she must move faster. The sound of thundering feet drummed in her head. A metallic tang lingered on her tongue and her heart skipped in her chest.

Camille lunged for the door handle and slipped her key into the lock, hands shaking. She leapt inside and slammed the door, locking it quickly behind her. Her breath came in shallow gasps in the dark. Who was following her?

She crept to the window and peeked through drapes made of
bedsheets to wait for the mystery person to pass. A minute ticked by and still no one came. Had they changed their mind once she had escaped? She shuddered at the thought of being caught in the street.

Light. She needed light to banish the dark.

Camille fumbled in the shadows. Her fingers brushed the pointed end of a rasp, the glazed surface of a pottery bowl, and a metal tube of paint. Finally, her hand closed around the waxy cylinder of a candle and a small rectangular box. She slid the cover open, retrieved a match, and struck the end against the box’s gritty strip. A flame flickered to life, burned the phosphorus-tipped head, and engulfed the wooden stick. She lit the candle just as the heat licked her fingertips.

How ghostly the room appeared by candlelight—a graveyard of broken pieces, half-finished human forms covered in rags, and heads with hollow eyes searching for their missing bodies. She shivered and lit the gas lamp. And there, atop her desk, sat a blob of clay, the wood handle of a plaster knife protruding from it.

Bumps ran over Camille’s arms. She hadn’t done that—had she? She had been angry earlier, but . . . She wrenched the knife from the mound of clay. A deep groove remained where the utensil had penetrated its pliable body. She didn’t always remember her actions during a tirade. Rage welled from her toes and swept over her, strangling her sense of reason. She detested how it took hold of her, but she couldn’t seem to control it. Yet she did not recall being angry today.

Not this time. She knew she had not stabbed the clay. And Jessie had not returned. She would have passed her in the street.

Camille’s pulse sped up once more. A metallic taste flooded her mouth. Stumbling, she flew around the room, examining every surface, each sculpture, the teakettle, the ashtray overflowing with squished cigarettes. All appeared normal but the plaster bust, which now sat askance.

A tremor of fear shook her to the core.

Her heart thundered against her ribs. She raced back to the window and peered out: doorways empty and cloaked in shadow; an abandoned bicycle missing a wheel and garbage littering the street; a sky swaddled in night’s blanket. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Until someone, posed just around the corner of the adjacent street, stirred in the dark.

“I
am being followed.” Camille chose a fig from the picnic basket and sank her teeth into its gritty flesh.

Giganti stretched out on the blanket, tucked his hands under his head, and stared up at the spring sky. “Who would follow you?”

“Monsieur Rodin,” she said without hesitation. She shuddered at the memory of the dark figure in the street, the knife in the clay.

A roar of laughter split the air. “Monsieur Rodin?” He sat up. “Following you? Why would he do that?”

Camille chucked a fig at him. “Is he so above me?”

“I just cannot see him stalking you from the shadows. He doesn’t seem the sort.” Giganti ran a hand through his dark curls and adjusted his posture on the lawn. He looked like a model even when he wasn’t trying, with his squared jaw, pursed lips, and tawny eyes. “Honestly, what would he gain by following you?”

Offended, Camille gathered her things and stuffed them into the basket. “What do you mean? He wants my ideas to claim for himself.”

“Camille.” Giganti took the basket from her hands. “You are a brilliant artist. No one can take that from you. But Rodin is as brilliant as you, so why would he attempt to steal your ideas?”

“I don’t know.”

Camille frowned. She wasn’t sure why she thought Auguste had followed her. She hadn’t seen him, exactly. And his words—he had
said many beautiful things to her. Would he lie? Her heart tangled with her reasoning.

“Rodin has feelings for you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” He squeezed her knee. “But for some reason you believe he would steal from you. It simply isn’t his way.”

She brushed a few errant blades of grass from her skirts. “You don’t know for certain how he feels about me, do you?”

“No.”

“Nor do I.”

Giganti laughed.

“But Jessie has plenty of opinions about what I should do.” Camille looked out at the families walking together, enjoying the sunshine and unseasonal warmth.

He clucked his tongue. “And you measure yourself by the young Englishwoman who will be married before she has made a name for herself? Come, darling Camille, that isn’t like you. She’s talented, but you are a poet. A poet with stone, that is.”

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

“That has earned me a kiss? What would your Monsieur Rodin have to say about that?”

She grinned. “He wouldn’t need your services anymore.”

Giganti laughed again.

Camille cocked her head sideways and the sunlight warmed her exposed cheek. “We’ve had an argument, Jessie and me. I don’t know what to say to her. She finds my relations with Auguste appalling. I told her she was jealous of my success.” She looked to him for guidance.

“She likely is, but she will come around. Jessie cares about you. And if she doesn’t, you don’t need her.” He squeezed her gloved hand. “Besides, you have me. I will always be your friend.”

“What would I do without you?”

Sunlight bathed the gravel walk and the expanse of emerald lawn, and splashed over Camille and Paul, who rested on a park bench after a leisurely stroll. Paul crossed his ankles and leaned back in a young man’s easy pose. He watched the older gentlemen play
boules
beneath the trees in their rectangular court of crushed stone. A stout man in a
derby hat launched his first
boule
. The wooden ball, made of boxwood root studded with nails, rolled toward its target. It spun and stopped just shy of bumping the smaller ball out of place.

The ball’s owner threw his hands in the air and whooped with glee. Another player whistled.

“He’s won again,” Paul said. He chewed listlessly on a long stalk of grass.

Another of the men scowled but ribbed the winner. They began to bicker good-naturedly among themselves.

Camille hated that she had argued with Jessie. She regretted her words and wished she had never told her about Auguste. No matter what Giganti said, she feared she had run off a dear friend. Besides, perhaps Jessie was right. Why would Rodin treat her differently from every other muse?

But the thought of dismissing him tore at her insides.
Merde
. She cared for him already.

“Read to me, Paul.” She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, willing herself to forget poetic whisperings and strong hands, gentle on her skin.

He picked up a book from the bench. An article he’d stuffed in the center fluttered to his lap. “Oh, I saved this for you.” He unfolded the crinkled paper.

“What’s this?” She snatched the scrap from his fingers.

“You haven’t seen it?” He sat up straighter, his face clouded with regret. “Mother assumed you had. She was about to throw it into the wastebasket. Yesterday’s paper.”

“Mother meant to hide it from me, I’m sure.”

“She quarrels with you, but she wouldn’t hide this from you, Camille.”

She screwed her face into a scowl. “I wouldn’t doubt it for a second. I’m surprised you do. When is the last time she congratulated you on your marks at school?”

“I don’t expect her to applaud my achievements. She has never even embraced me.”

The smallest stab of regret pierced her heart. Warmth and affection were not among Mother’s traits.

“Did she tell you the Royal Academy in London accepted my piece?” she said. “
Giganti
will be shown
.
”

“Congratulations!” He squeezed her arm. “You’re making your way.”

“Jessie’s
Day Dreams
was accepted as well. I had hoped to travel with her to England this month.”

“And you aren’t going now?”

She shrugged. “We’ve had an argument.”

“Women love the dramatics.” He cocked a lopsided grin at her. “But it will pass.”

She smoothed the paper once more. “I hope you’re right.”

“Well? Are you going to read the article or must I?”

Camille scanned the text until she saw her name. It was another review of
Giganti
. Her breath hitched and her mouth curved into a smile. “‘
Giganti
, by Camille Claudel, is lively and the bust’s soulful eyes challenge the viewer to engage with it.’” She continued to read and her smile faded. “‘Her style strikes a remarkable resemblance to her teacher, Auguste Rodin, one of the most daring sculptors of our time. Expect to see more from the promising Mademoiselle Claudel.’”

Her mood darkened.

“He compares you to Monsieur Rodin, sister!” He threw his arm about her shoulders. “Did you see that—‘one of the most daring sculptors of our time’? His popularity is growing. That could mean only good things for you. I pray for you every night.”

She bristled with anger. “I am nothing but a toady. One of Rodin’s innumerable admirers.”

The pack of gentlemen shouted. A man with a rotund middle and jowls waved his hand about, his voice passionate. Someone had knocked the target out of its position, throwing the whole game of
boules
.

“I agree you must be cautious,” Paul said. “You need to forge your own identity.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to meet his eyes. “But he is an excellent teacher. You’ve said so yourself. And you need him, for now. He will help you win commissions.”

“His
Idyll of Ixelles
was rejected by the Royal Academy and my sculpture was accepted. I can win my own commissions,” she said, her tone defiant.

But her words felt hollow, even to her. She
needed
him, and she didn’t need anyone.

“We’ll storm the literary and art world. Throw them all in a tizzy with our brilliance.” Paul stood and held out his hand. She accepted it, and rumpled his perfect hair. He laughed and swatted at her. “Let’s go home.”

That afternoon, Camille strolled through the
quartier
near her atelier. She grew tired of avoiding Jessie. She paused before a chocolatier and put her face to the glass. A woman leaned over a vat, stirring a pool of melted chocolate with a paddle. The rich mixture whirled in a funnel shape and glided over the wooden blade with each stroke. Jessie loved sweets. Perhaps a gift would ease the tension.

Something bumped Camille’s ankle. She looked down to find a kitten with black fur and white paws rubbing against her. The animal ducked under the hem of her skirt and the scratchy edge of a kitten tongue lapped against her stocking-clad leg. She laughed and bent to retrieve it.

“Where do you belong,
minou
?” She held it at eye level, the kitten’s back legs dangling. Two large yellow moons peered back her. It kicked and swayed, attempting to leap to flat ground, and finally sank its tiny teeth into her hand.

“Ouch! You’re a feisty little girl, aren’t you?” She held the animal against her and stroked its matted fur. Soft vibrations of kitten happiness rumbled in its throat. Given its meager frame and filthiness, the kitten must be a stray.

“Perhaps you should go home with me,” Camille said. She had always loved cats, but had never been allowed to own one.

The
minou
mewed in agreement.

She tucked the animal firmly against her, its fur tickling her chin, and walked to her atelier. Jessie adored animals as well; she had spoken of her cats at home many times.

When she entered, Jessie looked up from her piece briefly, and then trained her gaze on her bust once more.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” Camille said, breaking their week of silence. “This is Minou.”

“Oh?” Jessie picked up a plaster chisel and continued to shape a lace collar.

Camille’s hope plummeted. She wanted to put the argument behind them and forget it had ever happened. But it seemed a gift was not enough. She must apologize and plead for forgiveness—not her favorite thing to do.

“I—” the girls said in unison.

Jessie laughed softly. “Let’s just forget it, shall we? I should not have been as forthright as I was. It is not my business, nor is it my right to tell you how you should behave. If you are happy, that is all that matters to me. I apologize.”

“And my tantrum. The things I said . . .”

“Forgiven!” Jessie crossed the room, tool in hand, and kissed her cheek. “Of course you may see whom you wish, Monsieur Rodin included. Who am I to predict how things will go? Besides, given his humor these last few months, I would say he’s quite taken with you.”

Camille gave her a rueful smile. “I’m not sure that’s a positive thing. Did you see the review of
Giganti
?”

“Yes, congratulations! It was a wonderful review. My friend the ‘promising sculptor.’” She looked down. “I must admit, I have struggled with my rejections.”

Camille squeezed her arm. “Don’t give up hope. You are an excellent sculptor.” She smiled. “Plus, your piece was accepted in London! Paris must be soon to follow.”

“You really think so?” Hope lit her eyes.

“Absolutely. I believe in you. And I’m proud to work alongside you.” Camille meant it. Jessie’s style might be different from hers, but her works were beautiful, inspired.

Jessie wiped her hands and reached for the kitten. “May I?”

Minou startled at her touch and leapt to the floor, landing on all four paws.

“Little Minou,” Jessie sang in a soft voice. She bent to pet the kitten, which spooked and shot across the room. She laughed and stood. “It seems the kitten belongs to you, not me.” Her smile faded at Camille’s change of expression.