Rodin's Lover (22 page)

After a month away and little contact with her parents, Camille dreaded their reaction, but she could not tell them the truth about her excursion. When the maid opened the apartment door, Camille smiled at Corinne, whose ivory nightcap was askew.

“Where have you been, mademoiselle?” the older woman demanded. “Your mother has worried herself into a tizzy! She’s been in bed for days.”

“And am I to believe that? Please, Corinne; I am not sentimental, nor am I stupid. Mother’s theatrics are an attempt to control me as she does the rest of you, and we both know it.” Camille pushed past her into the hall.

“Camille?” Papa’s voice drifted from the salon. The sound of steady footsteps echoed over the wood floors until he stood before her, blocking her from the staircase, where she longed to flee. He knew her well.

“Where in God’s name have you been this last month?” he said. “Your mother thought you had run off or lay dead in an alley somewhere.”

“You mean she
hoped
I were dead.”

Papa huffed and the curled ends of his mustache fluttered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please, Papa. If you’ll excuse me, I am tired.”

“No, I certainly will
not
excuse you.” He slid on his overcoat. “We are going for a walk.”

“Papa—”

“Now.” He retrieved his walking cane from the corner and threw open the door.

The glow of the past weeks evaporated and Camille sank into a foul humor. She dropped her valise and followed him, reluctant to listen to his admonitions. She was twenty-two years of age, a grown woman with a career. She needn’t tolerate childish reprimands.

“Humor an old man and let me escort you.” He clasped her gloved hand and placed it on his forearm.

“Very well.” She stared at the mauve glove on her father’s arm. Its painted detailing curled around an oval cutout in the leather that bared her skin. Auguste had bought them for her. He had insisted when she had soiled her others irrevocably with turpentine. How would she tell Papa she had spent her time away with her teacher and lover? He would be furious.

They walked on in silence—not the scolding she’d had in mind and yet somehow worse, leaving her with her thoughts and guilt, a sentiment she did not experience often. Somehow Papa had a way of eliciting it in her. They turned a corner at the end of the street and walked in the direction of the Seine. Clouds swallowed the stars; the dark sky mingled with Camille’s black humor and pressed down upon her.

The darkness would not envelop her. She would war against it.

When they reached the water’s edge, a chilly gust brought the scent of muddy river waters rushing over their earthen fairway. She tasted their churning under stone bridges and curling around each bend.

“I adore that scent,” she said. “Of clay along the riverbank.” And this evening, it seemed particularly pungent. In fact, every odor did: the scent of her new leather gloves and the mélange of Papa’s cologne with city smog and fall air.

“Are you going to tell me where you were the last few weeks? We were all worried. You sent one letter informing us that you were on holiday without location, dates of travel, or the name of your escort. What were we to think? It was cruel, never mind unacceptable.”

Perhaps she should have written more often, yet what to say? She moved closer to the water’s edge, where it lapped just over the pointed tips of her shoes. She lifted her skirts to clear the waterline. Any farther and she would walk straight into the opaque waters, wade up to her neck.

“I’m waiting.” His eyebrows knitted together.

“Monsieur Rodin’s atelier. I’ve been working late hours on
Shakuntala
and a couple of other designs. And then there are the pieces I must finish for Rodin. . . .” Papa’s mustache twitched. “I lied about the vacation,” she continued. “I did not want to worry you, though it seems that was unavoidable.”

Papa’s mouth curved down at the corners and he placed his hands on her shoulders. Camille’s stomach tied into knots. He knew.

“Tell me you’re not his mistress.”

She didn’t answer.

Papa shook her slightly. “Tell me!”

“Of course not, Papa.” She turned her head from him. “And you may as well know, I am considering moving into my own apartment.”

He sighed in defeat. “I thought you might eventually. I am against it—living on your own does not bode well for your reputation—but I will not stop you.” They watched a barge chug upstream, parting the waters as it pushed ahead. “I am relieved you aren’t sharing his bed. He is too old for you and will only use you. Men may carry on as such, but women cannot. Once branded his mistress, you will always be considered a whore.”

Camille cringed at the insinuation. “Do you take me for an ignorant schoolgirl?”

“Don’t take that tone with me. I am your father. I will always consider your welfare, whether you like what I have to say or not.”

“Yes, Papa.”

The ding of a ship’s bell announced a tugboat’s presence moments before it appeared on the rushing river. A clump of smoky clouds floated away and a sliver of moon carved a smile into the depressed night sky. Camille gazed at the stars, a fistful of glitter against black silk. The pinpoints of light pulsed brighter and brighter.

Camille snapped her head down, startled. Her senses seemed more acute tonight than usual. The smells, the stars . . . She must be imagining things.

Tea? Did Papa want tea? She turned to her father to reply. “Yes, I’d like a cup of tea.”

Confusion marked Papa’s features. “We did not speak of tea.”

What was the matter with him? He had put the very idea in her head. Hadn’t he? Frowning, she said, “You suggested it.”

Confusion shifted to concern and the lines around his eyes deepened. “Very well,” he said slowly. “There’s a place at the end of the block.” He led her up the riverbank and down the narrow expanse of street. “You are aware Monsieur Rodin has a wife?”

“She is his lover and hardly that, from what I hear.” Venom dripped from her tongue. She despised the person who came between her and Auguste.

“Camille!” The light of a nearby lamp reflected off of Papa’s spectacles. “Do not be a gossip—it will not help your relationship with your teacher. If he discovered that you say such things—”

“It isn’t I who gossip, Papa. I am merely repeating what I have heard the entire atelier discuss.”

“I hope you are not among them.”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to gossip.”

“Very good.”

As they continued their walk, Camille studied the pools of lamplight coating the worn stones. She’d never noticed how liquid light appeared, almost fluid and flowing from one spot to another. And the strange pulsing! She shook her head. She must be very fatigued after her trip.

They ducked into a brasserie. Once they had ordered, they sat in silence until two steaming mugs of tea and an apple tart arrived.

Camille’s mood improved as a waft of cinnamon filled her nose. “If I am to be working for a long spell again, I will inform you in advance.”

“Thank you. That is all I ask,
chérie
.”

Camille added milk and sugar to her tea, a custom she had learned from Jessie. She had not seen her friend in weeks. She suddenly wanted to kiss Jessie for guarding her secret.

“Louise is to be married. Your mother is quite happy about the match.” Papa sipped from his cup, then paused before adding, “She has asked me to find new suitors for you, as well.”

“You cannot be serious.” She put down her cup hastily, scraping the porcelain against its saucer. “You know how much my art means to me.” She wanted to spit at the idea of being courted by some unworthy imbecile who would steal her away from her passion. Plus, to think of Auguste’s despair at such a circumstance—her heart wrenched.
“Mother hopes a man will ‘tame my wild ways.’ What she does not understand is that I will always be myself—a woman in love with sculpture. Marrying someone she chooses for me will only end in disaster.” She shoved her tea to the middle of the table. The cup wobbled in its saucer and toppled. Caramel-colored liquid spread across the table.

“Damn it, Camille!” Papa tossed a serviette over the mess and the liquid seeped into the flimsy fabric. “She wants you to be settled and loved like other women. That is all.”

The edges of her vision clouded with red. She took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper in public, especially with Papa. She could make him see her side.

Papa covered her hand with his own. “I would never ask you to marry if you weren’t ready. Your work will make history one day. I do believe that. It is a matter of finding the right critics to support you. Any man who loves you would feel the same. But you must consider the financial strain your lessons and studio have placed upon us.”

Camille exhaled a breath. So this was it; she had become a burden to her family, even to Papa.

“Monsieur Rodin pays me for my work in his atelier. I am one of his most skilled
praticiens
,” she said. “I can pay my own rent, if you will still assist me with supplies.”

He kissed her hand. “That would be a great help, not just to me, but in my argument with your mother.” He smiled for the first time that evening. “I read the paper while you were gone.”

She leaned back against the chair. “Did you see the news?”

“A bronze commission for
Giganti
. That piece has been so successful.” He forked the last bite of tart into his mouth. “But the write-up I read called you ‘an artist who mimics her teacher. One who lacks vision of her own.’”

Camille toyed with the tiny spoon in the sugar cube bowl. “I was furious. They treat me as if I don’t have my own style. Rodin has fashioned his works around my ideas and I have done the same with his—as it is in any atelier. Yet he receives all of the credit. But I am working on several of my own that I am not going to share.”

“You have a tremendous teacher, but I fear your career will be lost in his shadow.”

“I have wrestled with this dilemma, but for now, he helps me secure showings in the Salon, even a private commission on occasion. I am to meet one of his critic friends.”

She felt her father’s eyes on her as he took in every twitch, her restless fingertips, her loosely pinned chignon. He nodded in his knowing way. “Be careful. That is all.
Fais attention
.”

Camille laced her fingers together and flipped her wrists so her palms faced outward, a good stretch after working for hours on stone. The marble had proved more stubborn than the last block, which she’d carved into a set of feet for
The Burghers of Calais
. She bent over and reached toward the ground, an impolite gesture in the presence of so many men. Luckily most rules of society were suspended within the walls of an artist’s studio. With so many beautiful nude men and women moving about the premises, no one even looked up from their task.

Camille straightened once more and placed her hands on her hips. Auguste did not seem as preoccupied with the
Burghers
as before, not since the council had granted him the commission. His current obsession appeared to be the
Gates
, once more, and a commission of Victor Hugo, though rather than a mere bust for his personal collection, this Hugo would be a national monument placed in the Panthéon.

What must it be like to have so many opportunities? Camille kicked her heavy skirts, damp with sweat and water, and plopped down in a nearby chair. She sighed heavily.

“Why don’t you apply, mademoiselle?” a fellow sculptor named Maurice asked. He scrubbed a piece of marble with a wire brush to prepare it for carving. “For a permit to wear trousers, I mean.”

“And do all the paperwork with the Prefecture of Police? I would prefer to scratch out my eyes.” She stifled a yawn. “Though perhaps I may steal a pair of my brother’s pants.”

Maurice laughed. “Now you’re thinking.” He rolled his sleeves over his forearms to his elbows.

Thinking? She’d had trouble focusing lately. After an argument with Paul, she had been too distracted. Her brother did not like her spending so much time away from home. He felt abandoned by her,
his best friend. Though she assured him she loved him above all others, she knew she could not lie and promise him she would remain in the family home. She would move, if for no other reason than to solidify her independence.