Rodin's Lover (24 page)

A rap on the door made her jump. She moved across the room and flung open the door to find a filthy young boy on the stoop. The boy lived on the streets; his shredded trousers and coat and soot-stained face betrayed him.

“You Ma’moiselle Claudel?”

“Who wants to know?” She peered down the street.

The usual crowd of artists in stained smocks, musicians toting weighty instruments, and students lugging loads of books stalked to their destinations. Several doors down—almost out of sight—a man leaned against a doorway. A large beard engulfed much of his face. Was it her Auguste? She squinted. Why would he be watching her from afar?

The boy flashed a square of paper in his hand. Camille grasped his arm and tried to pry the envelope from his fingers.

“What you doing, ma’moiselle?” He squirmed out of her clutches and backed away. “You won’t have this unless you’re Claudel.”

She adjusted her disheveled frock and glanced at Auguste again. He had gone. “Who is it from?” she asked.

“Monsieur Giganti. He said Ma’moiselle Claudel would know him.”

“I am Claudel; now, hand it over!”

He dropped the envelope at her feet and ran, his scraggly hair flapping in the breeze as he dashed away.

“Beat it!” she shouted after him.

He turned, running backward, and made a lewd gesture.

Camille mimicked him and the little imbecile laughed. After he’d gone from sight, she retreated indoors and tore open the letter.

Ma Chère Camille,

I do not have the courage to tell you this in person, but I am returning to Italy.

I am embarrassed by my conduct, but I cannot stay. A lover from my past has resurfaced—this time it is a serious affair and he needs my help.

I wish you luck. I have no doubt your work will enchant the art world as you have enchanted me, dear friend.

With Sincere Affection,

Giganti

Camille’s mouth dropped open in shock. He was leaving her in the middle of
Shakuntala
? Her throat constricted in panic. She rushed to the window and looked down the street. Had Auguste put Giganti up to this? She’d seen him there, in the doorway. But why would he do such a thing? Surely he didn’t wish to sabotage her work, did he?

She crumpled the letter and tossed it at the waste can. She fumbled with the cigarette tin and the remaining contents spilled on the floor. “
Merde!
” she shouted. She scrambled on her hands and knees and
chose one poorly rolled cylinder. With a huff, she sat against the wall, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

Giganti had been a friend, even when Jessie had allowed her righteousness to come between them. The model had never thought her inferior for her choices. In fact, he had upheld her in the midst of her indecision and anxiety. A lump of sorrow formed in her throat. Camille burned through the cigarette and lit another. He was gone. He had abandoned her when she needed him, and now she wouldn’t be able to finish. Her great work—her salvation from obscurity—would never see the light of day. She would have nothing to show for two years of work but a lost friendship.

She slumped against the leg of the table and wept.

A
uguste rapped on Camille’s atelier door. Lights, though faint, still burned in the window, despite the late hour, so he knew she must be hard at work. She had been absent; for a week he had tried to reach her, but she seemed to know precisely when he was near. Or perhaps she had been ill and stayed home all of those days. If he weren’t such a coward, he would have called on the Claudel household.

He removed his beret and wrung it in his hands. God, he had missed her. Was she angry with him?

Footsteps echoed from behind the door, and then paused on the other side of the oak barrier between them. Suddenly remorseful, Auguste berated himself for his stupidity, his desperation to see her. He should not have come so late. Perhaps she could only make out a male figure in the moonlight and did not wish to open her door. He looked over his shoulder and thought to steal home. She need never know it was he. He was a damned fool, a schoolboy sick with love. Camille might return his sentiment, but she did not scurry around after him like a child.

The click of brass key in lock sent his heart into his throat. As the door creaked open, a black cat with white paws darted past his legs. A gale of winter wind gushed down the street and rustled a pile of forgotten newspapers. Their pages flipped open and wrestled against a crackling wind laden with the promise of ice and snow. The cat pounced at the moving target—too great a temptation to ignore. But
the pile of papers proved an unsatisfying toy as it lay trapped beneath her snow-white paws.

“Minou!” Camille darted after the cat without greeting Auguste.

The animal pawed at a crumpled ball of paper in the street. The ball bounced as if alive. Minou crouched, intent to pounce on the new plaything.

Camille paused to watch the cat’s tail sway, her green eyes wide. Her paw shot out and swatted the paper. Minou pattered after it and batted the wad back and forth into the middle of the street.

Auguste couldn’t help but smile.

Camille bent to rescue the cat just before it rolled into a puddle.

Rodin noted her hollowed cheeks and the purple-black wells beneath her eyes.
Dieu
, she looked starved and fatigued. He wanted to erase the dark smudges with his lips, cradle her in his arms, and bring her to bed. Something about her made him want to care for her.

“
Mon amour,
” he said, sighing.

“Why are you here?” She walked briskly to the door and went inside. The cat twisted and squirmed out of her hands.

His heart sank at her clipped tone. She had not missed him at all. “Are you unwell?” he asked, following her inside.

A few candles flickered in the otherwise dark room, throwing shadows on the wall. Dozens of maquettes of
Shakuntala
and a piece he had not yet seen covered every table surface and sat in messy heaps on the floor. The odor of dead fish permeated the air.

Auguste held his tongue. He didn’t want to say anything to upset her. Clearly she had been distressed already. Yet he had never seen the place in such a state of disgrace. And the darkness . . .

“Why does it smell like fish in here?” He looked under the tables and behind a chest to locate the source of the odor. Bits of a fish carcass lay scattered in the corner of the room near a bowl of murky water. “Is that for the cat?” He frowned. “What’s happened, Camille? Where is Mademoiselle Lipscomb?”

Camille lit a cigarette. “She’s been in London again, visiting her fiancé, but she returns tomorrow.”

A flame consumed the last nub of wick in a solitary candle. A wisp of smoke snaked through the air and the odor of newly extinguished fire mingled with that of rotten fish.

“You’ll need to tidy this place,” he said. “She’ll have no room to work as it is now.” Minou wound between his legs and he squatted to pet the cat’s silky fur.

“He’s gone,” she said, exhaling.

“Who is gone?” He watched as she paced in the small space, stopping to kick a maquette with a swift hit, launching it against the far wall. The dried clay whacked the plaster and burst in half.

“To Italy. Giganti left for Italy.” She mashed the butt of her cigarette against a dried maquette and let it fall to the floor. “I’ll never finish
Shakuntala
. Two years of work,” she croaked, her voice heavy with emotion, “a complete waste of time. It was to be a definitive work for me.”

“The bastard! I paid him for another month’s work. We’ll find another model to replace him.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. Despite his regret for her, a guilty sense of relief rushed through him—Giganti no longer posed a threat to their relationship. “I am surprised he left, I must say. I thought he was in love with you.”

A hollow laugh came from her lips. “Didn’t you know he has a perversion toward men? With that face and body he had more lovers than I will ever have.”

Auguste flushed in embarrassment. How had he not known? “I cannot believe I had never realized—”

“Why would you have known about his life outside of your studio?” She lit another cigarette.

He grunted. He did not expect the pinch of hurt at her words. He felt so close to his subjects, their movements, their emotions. He thought he knew his models better than they knew themselves, after so many hours observing them. It seemed he had been mistaken.

“What am I to do?” she asked, her expression forlorn. “No one looks precisely like him. It’s impossible.”

She put down her cigarette and with a fierce tug tried to open her desk drawer. The splintered edges slammed against the inside frame of the desk. She righted the drawer and yanked on the pull once more. Something cracked and the drawer propelled off its rickety track to the floor. Several pencils rolled under the desk and papers scattered near her feet. She fished the crumpled letter out of the pile and thrust it toward him.

Auguste took it from her cold fingertips, though his eyes never left her face. “What’s this?”

“‘I do not have the courage to tell you this in person, but I am returning to Italy.’”
She recited Giganti’s letter.

“I will take care of this,” Auguste said. “You have a hundred portraits of him, and your sketches, the bust. We’ll make do, I promise.” He glanced at the rag-covered lump he knew to be
Shakuntala
. He would do everything in his power to help her. “We’ll find another Italian with a similar build. You
will
finish. All will be well.”

When her arms slid around his waist, he sighed in relief and laid his cheek atop her crown of curls. This precious, tormented woman. She needed him and he needed her.

After a heated kiss, he whispered in her ear, “I will take care of you, always. Even if you choose to give up sculpture—”

Camille went rigid in his arms. “You do not understand me at all. My humor has not been at its best, that is true. But am I not allowed to mourn the departure of both a friend and muse?” She stalked to her worktable once more, distancing herself from him.

He regarded the fire in her eyes, the determined set of her jaw. “Of course you are.”

“You are just like them—those who wish I would accept my fate, a woman expected to find happiness in belonging to someone, in keeping a household and chasing children.” Her voice went cold. “My dreams mean nothing to you. They mean nothing to anyone but me.”

“That isn’t true. Camille—”

She stubbed her cigarette out on the surface of the table, paying no heed to the sizzle of fire on lacquer. “It’s true, whether you admit it or not. ‘When will she outgrow this phase?’ they all ask. ‘When will a gentleman make an honest woman of her?’ My mother and certainly your colleagues think so.”

Rodin sighed. He could not argue with her. He had fought the prejudices of the
institut
on his own behalf many times, and on hers through his letters, though she did not know it. The result had always been the same: She was a woman, and certainly of lower status in their eyes. Suddenly, he was glad to be a man, a fact he had never given much thought to before loving
sa féroce amie
, his ferocious friend.

“Some think so, yes,” he admitted slowly. “But I am not among them.”

She crossed her arms. “You wish to take care of me, truly?”

“You must ask?” He reached for her.

She stepped out of his reach. “Bring them. Bring the critics to your studio. Let them meet me as your prized student with my works displayed. Show them I am a true artist. They will listen to you.”

He nodded. “I would be happy to, but it must be on my terms. It is not just your reputation at stake.”

“You are embarrassed by me?” she asked in a wounded tone.

“Of course not. But we are professionals and once tied together, we reflect one another in the public eye.”

Camille’s shoulders relaxed; her eyes became less guarded. “I am already tied to you as your pupil. But we must keep the truth of our relationship hidden or I will lose all credibility. They will see me as just another fool who wishes to follow in your footsteps. I would rather leave you than be branded a mimic of your work.”

This was not the direction Rodin had intended to take the conversation. She did not need a reason to leave him outside of Rose. The thought of losing her made him want to curl inward and fade away. He cleared his throat to rid himself of the knot of emotion welling there.

“We needn’t worry about their perception of our relationship,” he said. “Your work will speak for itself.”

The frown on her face melted into a smile. “I think so, too.”

C
amille massaged her fingers and wrists. She and Jessie had worked all morning without respite, without stopping for even a drop of coffee.

“You may break,” Jessie said to a pair of models.

A mother and her young son stepped down from their perch, dressed, and sat to eat a hunk of bread and cheese. Camille’s stomach grumbled as the aroma of a particularly pungent cheese filled the air. She picked over several apples in the basket on the table before selecting one.

“Monsieur Elborne should be here soon,” Jessie said. “He’ll take us for supper.”

“What luck
,
” Camille replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

Jessie’s fiancé, William Elborne, had returned with her from England to see her studio and view the Paris Jessie had grown to love. Camille had disliked him on sight; his wide grin revealed a dreadful set of crooked yellow teeth and his innocent eyes gave him the look of an imbecile. He simply couldn’t be as clever as Jessie, and he would steal her away, back to London for good. The first thing the cad would do is impregnate her to keep her tethered to his side. Her allowance for art supplies would diminish, and her love for sculpture would dissolve.

Camille’s gut twisted in a knot at the thought.

“Will he allow you to work while he is visiting?” Camille asked. She couldn’t help herself. Jessie would abandon her, their friendship, just as
Giganti had. She’d probably forget to write and never speak to her again, and it was all this man’s fault.

“Really, Camille!” Jessie tossed the hardened heel of bread loaf into the wastebasket. “I know you do not care for him, but you needn’t be rude. It’s offensive.”

The model pretended not to hear their squabble, and tousled her son’s unruly curls.

Jessie poured tea for each of the adults and a cup of warmed chocolate for the boy. Little Julien’s mother held the cup to his lips and he slurped it greedily, dribbling a sticky river of chocolate down his chin.

“He will destroy your dreams.” Camille bit into her apple, its clean snapping sound a signal her opinion was final and the conversation closed—at least for her.

“And just what are my dreams? You seem to understand them better than I do,” Jessie countered. “I must accept my responsibilities as a woman at some point, and I love him.”

Would Camille marry Auguste if he asked? Perhaps, but she would not abandon her art, and he wouldn’t ask her to. He would never propose anyway, she thought glumly.

“You must be a woman at some point!” Camille echoed Jessie’s phrase. She hurled the apple core across the room. It smacked against the wall, leaving a glistening imprint before plopping into the wastebasket. “Am I less of a woman—are you—if we choose not to marry and have children?”

“Are we going to argue about this?” Jessie’s eyes flashed. “You know I share the same views, but I have fallen in love and I want a family. That does not make me any less an artist than you.” She looked longingly at the cherub on his mother’s lap.

Camille thought of Paul at that age, his fattened cheeks and legs, how he had toddled around the house after his big sisters. She understood Jessie’s desire for children. Her anger and annoyance evaporated and her vision blurred with tears. She’d had so few friends—certainly none who understood her. How lonely she would be when Jessie finally departed.

Jessie glanced at Camille and her face softened. “I’m not leaving so soon.” She moved across the room and embraced her. “And I will miss you, too.

How had her friend read her so easily? She pulled away. Any warmth, any sympathy bestowed on her at all and the delicate band holding her emotion in check would snap.

A pounding came at the door, and Jessie’s features shifted in an instant. She scurried to answer it.

“Darling!” she said from the doorway. “You’ve brought your camera?”

A male voice floated through the hall.

Camille listened to them prattle on in English until their voices dropped. She sorted through her tools, trying to ignore the sound of them exchanging kisses. Thankfully, the cherub clapped his hands and leapt off his mother’s lap, happy to have a full belly. He was a welcome distraction.

Julien’s mother stood and wrestled him out of his clothing. They would work another hour before supper.

“
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Claudel,” Elborne said, lugging a wooden box fixed with the long snout of a camera lens. In his right hand he toted a case, presumably for the stand. “Having a fine day, I hope?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

Monsieur Elborne set the camera on the table. “Would you mind terribly if I took your photograph? With Mademoiselle Lipscomb, of course. I would like to capture the two of you working.”

Work would soon end for Jessie—he may as well document it for her to remember.

“As you wish,” Camille said.

Monsieur smiled, showing his buttery teeth, then moved like a cyclone in a frenzy of photograph paper and clanking camera parts. Jessie instructed the models to take their positions and began working once more.

Camille continued to work on
Shakuntala
while the buffoon fumbled with his camera. She didn’t bother to look his way while he snapped several photographs.

“Have you seen the construction site?” the gentleman asked. “That fellow, Eiffel, had the ground cleared by the Champ de Mars. They’ve already begun construction.”

“It’s for the World Exposition,” Camille said. “I can’t imagine a metal monstrosity sullying the skyline. And we wonder why it’s so
difficult to land a commission! That so-called ‘art’ is the perfect example of the ministers’ hideous taste.”

“I think a massive iron tower penetrating the sky is a symbol of progress.”

Camille snorted. “Penetration is precisely the problem.”

The model tried to cover a giggle and Monsieur Elborne laughed in spite of himself. Jessie shot her a warning look.

Camille did not care that she was inappropriate. Her tongue had a mind of its own and she had given up trying to curb it.

“These ministers you mentioned, haven’t they approved some of your designs? I was under the impression you have had some luck.” Elborne adjusted the legs of his stand to a new position to photograph Jessie on her own.

“I have had some luck with private commissions, yes, and a few shown at Salon.”

“That is more than Jessie,” he said. “You must be pleased.”

Anger ate at her patience. “Monsieur, I am not pleased to pit my success against that of a dear friend, nor am I contented with showings in which I was listed as a mere pupil. Even less so am I enthralled by reviews that compare me to my teacher.”

“You must understand it is a man’s profession,” he said. “Perhaps you should channel your talents elsewhere.”

Rage surged through Camille’s limbs and set her temples to pounding. She threw down her chisel and it clinked against a pile of tools on the tabletop. “And this is precisely why I am not supportive of your union, Jessie.” She whisked a cloth over her piece and tossed her smock over the chair. “And you, sir, are not to return to this studio.”

She bolted for the door.

Auguste had come through as promised; he had found a suitable replacement for Giganti within days. To Camille’s relief, she finished
Shakuntala
in time for the Salon and now circulated among the other artists and guests. Energy rolled off her skin—the compliments for her work had come one after another all evening. With each additional nod of approval, she grew more excited, and by evening’s end,
she wanted to dance. This was it! She had finally created something noteworthy, and the continual praise reflected it.

“You are beaming.” Auguste leaned in closer. “And delectable in your gown. I am counting the minutes until we may leave.”

Camille brushed her lips over his cheek. They grew bolder in displaying their affection for one another, despite her better judgment. Tonight, she did not care. She had worked too hard to come to this point, and now she couldn’t contain her joy.

Mathias Morhardt crossed the room to join them, fresh wineglasses in hand. “
Shakuntala
is a success, Mademoiselle Claudel. You’ll want this”—he put a glass in her hand—“because I have thrilling news for you. I’ve just been told your piece has won the Salon prize!”

Camille squealed and pecked the critic, and new friend, on his fleshy cheek.

Though taken aback, he smiled. “Congratulations. It is well deserved.”

“
Félicitations!
” Auguste kissed her on both cheeks and held her face in his strong hands. “I could not be happier for you.”

She had been given a prize at last! This was the beginning of many great things to come—she just knew it. Tears pricked behind her eyes. Acceptance as an artist meant more to her than she had ever realized. It meant everything, and now she had it all. Paul and Papa would be so proud. She could hardly wait to tell them. She gulped down half of her champagne and choked on the sting of bubbles in her nose and throat. Her heart was bursting with happiness!

“Oh, Auguste, I’ve done it.” She wrapped her free arm around his neck.

Eyebrows raised, Mathias looked from one to the other, weighing the intimacy between them.

“I propose a toast,” Auguste said, raising his glass. Mathias and Camille followed suit. “To achieving the dream, to my genius student, and most of all, to a bright future.”

“To a woman blasting through their locked doors!” Camille added.

“
Santé!
” They all said in unison.

A month later, an array of critics circulated through the Dépôt des Marbres. Auguste’s assistants had spent a week organizing and
cleaning the studio, moving Camille’s pieces in progress and positioning them in an attractive arrangement. Even those she had carved for Auguste sat on display. Camille smiled. It had been facile convincing the critics to attend a private showing after her winning a prize at the Salon. All evening she had been pulling Auguste into his office or around dark corners and kissing him in thanks.

She laid a hand on her abdomen. They had feasted on creamed celery soup, spring lamb, and asparagus at a restaurant that afternoon to celebrate, and she was still full to the brim. It was the first large meal she had eaten since Giganti had left. He had taken her appetite with him when he left her in the lurch. But her luck had changed and with it, the success of her career. She had arrived.

“I am happy you are here,” Camille said, clinking her glass against Paul’s.

Though Paul claimed he wanted to be there for her, she’d had to convince him to abandon a prayer service that evening to attend. A shadow fell over her good humor. He had been attending daily confession, and mass almost as often. Even more disturbing was his incessant talk of saints. He no longer spoke of friends or his life outside the church. She had even witnessed him berating himself for his “sinful” behavior. She hoped the phase would pass—his obsession was beginning to worry her.

“I am so proud of you,” Paul said. “I knew they would recognize your talent one day.” He sipped from his aperitif glass and looked about the room, self-possessed and confident.

Camille had trained him well. Now her brother moved about the circle of writers, artists, and critics as if he were one of them, and he was. “Congratulations on your prize,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I knew it, Paul. You’ve been destined to be a writer since you were a runt.”