Rodin's Lover (2 page)

“
Bien,
” Paul said. “I am ahead again.”

Camille sat beside her father. “I spent the entire day in the barn. Paul’s bust is finished.”

“If you continue with such intensity,” Mother said in a curt tone, “your
art
will consume you.”

Camille shrugged. Was that a bad thing? To be consumed by what you most adored?

“I look forward to seeing it,” Papa cut in. He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief.

Mother dropped her sewing in her lap. “She missed another session with Monsieur Colin yesterday afternoon. Your daughter traipses through the woods, destroying clothing, ignoring her duties. And of course she has to get her brother into trouble as well.” She threw Paul a pointed look.

A rush of blood crept up Camille’s neck to her hairline. Mother could never resist the chance to chastise her in front of everyone. She bit her tongue to keep from saying something she would regret.

“Camille.” Papa trained his kind blue eyes on her face. “You mustn’t miss your lessons or I won’t pay for them any longer.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.” She covered his hand with hers. “I lost track of the time. I had to gather more clay—”

“See to it you don’t miss another.” He nodded as if to close the discussion.

“
Oui
, Papa.” Camille shifted her gaze to the floor.

Mother recommenced her sewing, her lips twitching into a satisfied smile.

“Monsieur Colin wrote to me of your progress.” Papa withdrew a
letter from his pocket. “He is impressed, Camille, and with you as well, Paul. I fear you both may soon outgrow him.”

Louise noted his lack of compliment toward her and crossed her arms.

“Would you send me to school, then?” Paul leaned forward in his chair.

“Perhaps, one day.”

“And me? Would you send me away?” Louise asked with a nervous tug on a stray curl. She twined it around her forefinger.

“Don’t worry,” Camille said. “You’ll not be sent away, Louise. You’ll fall madly in love with a prince who will whisk you away to a castle that would make even Cendrillon jealous.”

Louise gave her sister a saccharine smile.

“Don’t mock your sister,” Mother said. “At least Louise has a real goal. You should set one of your own. One that is actually achievable. In fact, I think it’s time to find yourself some suitors.”

“I have a goal, though you refuse to accept it!” Camille stood and glared down at Mother. “Tell her, Papa.”

He tugged on her hand. “For now, you must finish your studies. Then we will discuss other options.”

“Other options?” Mother’s voice switched from condescending to shrill. “We spend entirely too much money on her as it is. And for what? So she can pretend she is a man?” She picked up her sewing and jabbed her needle through the cloth.

“I don’t
pretend
anything.” Camille stalked to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“
Je sors!
”

“You are not going out,” Mother declared. “Come back here this instant!”

She ripped open the door and flew into the yard in a fury.

“Let her go.” Papa’s firm voice drifted through the open window.

Camille raced down the gravel lane and across the square. She ducked under a row of lime trees, passed the silent
boucherie
and the darkened windows of the handful of boutiques that sold figurines, pottery, and other goods made from the red Villeneuve earth, the town’s one and only treasure. Her only treasure.

Suitors! The thought of it made her ill. She cared nothing for men
and their lustful eyes and pawing hands. To be married would suffocate her. No man would ever understand her need to create with her hands day after day.

A mother pulled her children closer to her side and hurried toward home, something Camille’s own mother would never do. Mother would never embrace her, or take her by the hand. She had never kissed her or stroked her hair, not even as a child. Camille swallowed hard against the unfathomable sorrow that rushed up her throat each time she allowed Mother to make her long for the love that would never come.

She dashed into a wheat field, blond stalks swishing around her legs. As the rows thickened, she pushed ahead, tendrils brushing against her face. She ran her fingertips over the stalks, grasping at heads and plucking off the individual kernels. To touch, to feel anything comforted her. At the edge of the field, she plucked a final stalk and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger.

She must devise a plan. She could not be married off—that was out of the question.

The crickets’ night song grew louder as she neared the forest, and the scent of pine needles filled her nose. She followed the sandy path through the trees that led to her favorite hiding place, now swallowed in shadows. In her secret garden, worn boulders jutted from the earth, their grotesque shapes carved by weathering wind and rain. The Devil’s minions, they were called. As a child, Camille had created stories for each of the distorted shapes. When she reached La Hottée du Diable, the dull gleam of limestone shone in the moonlight. She climbed into the rock’s hollow and ran her hands over its rough surface, feeling every weathered bump.

Night enfolded her in its balmy air, and with darkness came a decision. She would persuade Papa to hire an art tutor, someone more knowledgeable than Monsieur Colin. Then, she would bargain with him. If she did not progress in a year’s time, she would not waste Papa’s money any longer and she would . . . confront those repercussions when the time came.

Camille leaned into the cradle of stone and peered up at the silver moon. She
would
become a sculptor; someday she would even show her portraits. The thought warmed her blood and filled her heart until she felt as if it would burst.

A fat raven alighted on the edge of the rock nearest her. The bird preened its midnight feathers and then watched her with an inquisitive eye.

“Yes, Mr. Raven, it will be,” she said. “You may carry my words to the Devil himself.”

C
amille strode across the lawn to the barn and propped open the doors, flooding the space with light. A fine powder covered every surface. Against the rear wall, a table displayed a bust of Napoléon I and a portrait of David and Goliath, along with several studies of Paul and Louise, and a dozen miniature animal figurines. How long, exactly, had she been sculpting? She thought back to the first figurine she had formed while making mud pies with Paul when he was a toddler. Was she six? Seven? Each day after that first, she had returned to the clay, intent on making some new toy for him or Louise.

She tied an old apron around her waist. Papa had been amenable to her idea of an art tutor, and today the new teacher would view her works and decide if she was a worthy student. Her nerves rattled at the thought. He wouldn’t turn her away, would he?

She threw off the damp cloth that protected Poseidon’s bust, and the sea god stared back at her with murderous eyes.

“Well, hello to you, too.” Camille laughed to herself.

She sliced small incisions into Poseidon’s clay forehead, dabbed them lightly with a wet brush, and pressed a loose slab of clay onto the scored surface. Now to shape it just so. She worked the pasty surface with her fingers until a rounded bonelike structure appeared. As she had hoped, the mound threw a shadow across the sea god’s prominent cheekbones. Her Poseidon was angry, poised to fight the sailor who had kidnapped his water nymph lover.

All of Camille’s portraits reflected ardent emotion. Even her bust of a young girl possessed a vivid exuberance, and not the quiet happiness the model herself had learned to demonstrate through etiquette. She did not see the point in living a life sans passion. She turned the armature supporting the sculpture, examining the bust from different angles. The head tilted too far forward. How to correct the problem? She walked around it once more. She would have to adjust the neck and shoulders, possibly build a new armature. She groaned. This would take some time.

Camille pored over Poseidon, losing track of the hour, until the sound of wheels crunching gravel and a horse’s whinny broke her reverie. She peeked through the window to see Papa’s trim form alongside a portly gentleman with thick waving hair and a wiry beard.

The tutor had arrived!

As they made their way to the barn, she ducked from sight and returned to her sculpture.

“And here is her work space.” Papa led the gray-suited gentleman into the barn, not bothering to introduce him to Camille.

The man immediately absorbed himself in her work. He walked from one end of the room to the other, studying each of the pieces. He grunted and scratched his beard.

Camille pretended to mold Poseidon’s head, but watched the stranger examine her portraits.

After several silent minutes, Papa said, “Camille, this is Monsieur Alfred Boucher. A professional artist. A sculptor,
chérie
.”

“
Bonjour
, monsieur,” Camille said. The gentleman wasn’t just a tutor, but a real sculptor! She could hardly hold her tongue. She had so many questions, so many ideas.

Alfred Boucher met her gaze and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Mademoiselle, these are all yours?”

Clearly he had not expected to see such promise from a young lady. Her smile dimmed. Or maybe he found them lacking.

“Who has taught you, other than Monsieur Colin?” Boucher asked.

“She has had no proper training,” Papa said. “Only a little drawing and painting at the girls’ school in Épernay.”

“I am ready for more instruction.” Camille pushed her hair out of
her eyes with her arm, careful not to drag her sticky fingers through it. “It is no easy feat to find an art tutor for a girl, especially for sculpture.” She tried to remove the edge from her voice but failed. “We are so unworthy of schooling. An artist’s life might taint my pure mind and heart.”

“Camille—” her father began.

Boucher chuckled. “Young woman, you are more than worthy of schooling. Your use of light, these ridges . . . they are violent in contrast.” He leaned closer to the bust of Paul. “And this expression! For a novice it’s exquisite.”

A surge of pride rolled through Camille. She believed her work good, but it was quite another thing to hear someone else—a professional—say it. So different from the compliments offered by Papa or Paul, or occasionally Louise.

“Monsieur Boucher isn’t just any sculptor, Camille,” Papa said. “He is renowned in Paris.”

Boucher smiled. “Yes, I suppose that is somewhat true. Louis-Prosper, if we could have a word.” He nodded at Camille. “It has been a pleasure. Thank you for sharing your work with me.”

“The pleasure was mine, monsieur.” She smiled again. This man might be the key to expanding her skills, or—better yet—to convincing Papa to send her to school in Paris. Irrepressible excitement coursed through her. She wanted to dance!

Papa followed the gentleman to the door. Once they had gone, Camille tiptoed to the edge of the doorway and peeked outside.

“She has exceptional talent,” Boucher said. “You say she is seventeen?”

Papa clapped him on the back. “Yes, she is only seventeen.”

“I would be willing to take her on as a pupil,” Boucher said. “I could travel to your home a few times per month, as time permits, but I must warn you, I spend a great deal of my time in Paris. I cannot commit to a regular schedule.” He clasped his hands behind his back, thinking. “If there is any way . . . Pardon my candor . . .”

“Go on, man,” Papa said. “I invited you here for your honesty.”

“You really should send her to Paris. She could learn from me as well as from other students. There is an art school where young women are now permitted—the Académie Colarossi. She would certainly
benefit from their teachings. The school even uses nude models. Unusual for a school with female students, but necessary for learning sculpture. And, as luck would have it, I know the director. I could talk with him if you wish.”

Art school? Camille bit her knuckle to hold back a squeal.

Surprise registered on Papa’s face. “We will discuss it,” he said slowly. “This is a sudden move, and possibly more than we can afford. And it would divide the family.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I can’t very well send her to Paris alone.”

She fought the disappointment that crushed her unchecked hope. She had to go! She would never flourish at home, in this
ville nulle
, with no training and no opportunity. Mother would force her to give up sculpting and marry some boorish man.

“Did you say
nude
models?” Papa asked.

Alfred Boucher smiled. “Yes. To properly learn the human form, the musculature and bone structures, you need to study them nude. It’s shocking for those outside of the art world, but I assure you, the greatest sculptors study nude models—even if their pieces eventually wear clothing.” He removed his hat. “You don’t have to decide now. Take time; consider it well. A move to Paris is a grand decision. An investment for her future, and would be for your son as well. I hear he’s a gifted student in letters and philosophy? You have a talented family.”

Their voices trailed off as Papa led Camille’s only hope away to the house.

Two weeks had passed since Monsieur Boucher’s visit and Camille had yet to see him again. She peered over the edge of her book from her position on the settee, chewing one nail after another. When would they receive word? Had Monsieur Boucher rejected her after all?

Papa reclined in his usual spot, nestled in his favorite chair with a stack of newspapers on the floor beside him. Paul sat at the dining room table, writing furiously by lamplight, pausing only briefly to flip through one of the many books beside his inkwell. Mother and Louise had retired to bed.

Camille’s anxiety swelled and she stood. “Papa, would you like to stroll with me in the garden? It’s a perfect night.”

“A splendid idea,” he said, oblivious to her distress. “I’ll just get my walking cane.”

They filed through the door and around the side of the house. Moonlight spilled over the scraggly hedges and the red roof of the neighboring house. Though they walked without speaking, Camille’s stomach churned.

“Papa—”

“Camille—”

They spoke at the same time, then laughed.

Papa slid his arm about her shoulders and kissed her head. “I have something to tell you.”

Her stomach plummeted to her toes. This was it. Monsieur Boucher had decided not to tutor her—she wasn’t good enough. Suddenly the moon turned into a glowing eye, mocking her from its exalted pedestal in the sky.

Papa lifted his cane to point at a movement near the roses. “Look, a family of rabbits. They had better hide before that old fox comes around.”

“Go on,” she said, her impatience plain.

He chuckled and turned to face her. “I have a proposition for you.”

She nodded.

“The family will move to Paris.”

“You mean it?” Her heart leapt into her throat and she squeezed his arm.

He held up his hand. “As I said, it’s a proposition. We will move to Paris—I will do my work in Wassy during the week and travel to Paris on the weekends. You will no longer have to move about with me every time I am sent to a new town.” He sat on the stone bench in the garden. “Your brother will go to school. I’ve already spoken with him about this.”

The little rat. Paul hadn’t told her.

“Louise will continue with a tutor at home and you, my dear,” he continued, his eyes twinkling, “are enrolled at l’Académie Colarossi. Now, I know it isn’t l’École des Beaux-Arts, but—”

Camille threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Sheer joy bubbled inside her. “You won’t regret it. I’ll show those stodgy old men at l’École a thing or two about art. They’ll wish they admitted women.”

“There’s more,” he said in a firm voice. “In exchange, I’ve promised your mother you will meet with a few suitors.”

She froze. That would mean . . . She shook her head.

“Camille”—he rubbed his thumb across her cheek—“I’m not asking. I’m telling you—you must.”

Her mind raced. They could not force her to marry. She could meet a few gentlemen. What did she care? She would be a sculptor—that was all that mattered. She smiled triumphantly. “I’ll do it.”