Rodin's Lover (29 page)

“What is it?” she asked, swallowing her less-than-pleasant emotions.

He took her in his arms. “Your little Madeleine shall be in marble.”

She gasped. “How did you manage that? Who wants it?”

“I purchased the stone myself. Think what a mark it will make at the Salon—a woman’s work in marble.”

Camille squeezed him with all her might. And this was precisely why she could not stay angry at him for long—his generosity, his obvious desire to help her succeed.

He laughed. “I see you are pleased.”

“
Merci, mon amour.
” With a happy heart, she pressed her lips to his.

Rodin did not wish to attend another dinner where he must be engaging. He had neither the wits about him nor the appetite—his stomach felt raw, chewed alive by the stress of so much work to complete. The
Gates
, the
Burghers
,
Hugo
—not to mention several of his personal
projects—needed finishing. But to ensure his legacy and to pay his mounting bills, he could not turn the work away. As he grew older and his days numbered, he feared he would not leave enough of his works behind. Now he vied for a national commission of Honoré de Balzac, but another sculptor had been the favored contender—at least that is what a friend behind the scenes had told him.

“
Bonsoir
, gentlemen,” Auguste said, sitting at a table of critics and friends. He turned to the man on his right—the reason he had agreed to attend the dinner in the first place—the newly appointed president of the Société des Gens de Lettres.

Émile Zola smiled, softening his staid countenance. “Monsieur Rodin, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

The writer had visited Auguste’s atelier nearly two years ago, but he had seen him only a handful of times since, and from a distance. “Thank you for the invitation,” he replied. “I am truly honored. Tell me, are you working on another book? I have purchased my own copy of
L’Argent
.”

Zola frowned and pushed his oval spectacles up his nose. “That novel has not garnered the praise I had hoped.”

Auguste spooned steaming cabbage soup into his mouth. “Don’t let it bother you. Many allow their religious prejudices to speak for them, rather than their sentiments about your style. I understand your frustration, but your novels are poignant and will be remembered as such for posterity.”

“Jews and Christians have been at war for centuries,” Zola said. “And yet, writing about their struggle in modern times is as controversial as ever.” He soaked a hunk of bread in his soup until it grew heavy with savory liquid. “I have some business to discuss with you.”

Bracing himself, Auguste set down his spoon. He already knew what Émile would say. To attain the commission of not one but two national heroes would be a coup. It did not surprise him that he had not been selected, yet he couldn’t help but feel the letdown. “Balzac has been granted to Monsieur Vasselot,” he said, voice matter-of-fact.

“The opposite, in fact,” Zola said, smiling. “I have selected the sculptor myself and elicited the committee’s approval.”

“Oh?” Auguste’s stomach churned with wine and cabbage broth.

“You are the artist to capture Balzac’s naturalism, his greatness.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Auguste shook Zola’s hand vigorously. “Thank you.” Victor Hugo and now Honoré de Balzac! A wide smile crossed his face.

“I have no doubt you will create a marvel of a piece,” Zola said.

“I will do my best.”

Zola ate another bite. “We can discuss stipends and delivery dates next week after I meet with the committee.”

A shower of anxiety dampened Auguste’s excitement. Another due date. He forced a smile and downed another bite of soup.

Auguste riffled through his bills and shoved the latest into a leather binder before hiding them in his desk. One day he would no longer be able to help Camille financially, and he did not look forward to that day. The only remedy would be to help her find work—and he would do his best to ensure it happened.

“Auguste!” Rose called from the salon downstairs.

He sighed. He had not seen her much in the past months, or even the past two years, with his constant travel with Camille, but he still did his best to keep her satisfied—and out of his hair.

“Auguste!”

Muttering under his breath, he headed downstairs to the salon.

Rose sat in a chaise mending a pair of her stockings. “There you are. Since you’ve been back from Touraine, you’ve either dashed out the front door or been locked in your office.”

Auguste sat on the sofa opposite her and chose a newspaper from the stack in the wicker basket. “I’ve had bills and such to tend to.”

Silence followed, broken only by the occasional rumple of newspaper pages. After some time, Auguste looked up. Rose watched him intently. A bonnet covered her graying hair and she wore her favorite faded apron.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I want you to stop seeing her.”

“Stop seeing who?”

“After all this time you are going to treat me as if I am blind?” Her voice rose an octave. “The artist. You made
The Eternal Idol
for her, didn’t you?”

Auguste rubbed his tired eyes. The piece in which a woman leaned
backward on her knees, her eyes closed in pleasure as a male figure kneeled at her altar—his love, his inspiration, his very being. He was that male figure. Yes, he had made the piece for Camille.

“We wouldn’t live like paupers if you stopped supporting your whore. You parade all over the country buying her things,” she said. “You think I don’t read the receipts?” When he didn’t reply, she crossed her arms. “She doesn’t even make you happy. You’ve brooded and skulked ever since you met her.”

“Perhaps you should find a lover of your own.” Fatigue throbbed in his bones. “Someone who makes you feel alive. Clearly that person is not me and it hasn’t been me for many years.”

Rose stood and her mending tumbled from her lap to the floor. “You would toss me out? Cast me aside like a worn pair of shoes?” Her face turned a frightening shade of purple.

Auguste grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him. “Calm yourself. Your heart—”

She yanked her hand free of his grasp. “You make me sick!” She clutched her chest.

“Sit down!” He guided her to the settee.

Before she reached the cushion, she crumpled and fell to the floor, gasping for breath.

“R
ose!” Auguste bent over her limp body. “Take a deep breath.” He loosened the buttons of her collar and the front of her dress, then cradled her head in his lap.

“My chest . . .” she squeaked through blue lips.

“Jeanne!” he shouted. “Come at once! Jeanne!”

The maid’s footsteps clamored in the corridor.

“Send for Doctor Moreau! She’s had a
crise cardiaque
. Go now!”

Jeanne gasped. “Right away. Oh, mademoiselle.” She threw a shawl about her shoulders. “I will return as soon as I can.”

Rose gulped in several breaths and attempted to sit up.

“Do not try to get up,” Auguste said.

After several minutes more, the color seeped into her lips and her breathing regulated. “The pain,” she groaned, clutching her chest.

Auguste pulled a blanket from the nearby armrest and wrapped her in it gingerly. “You frightened me.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“I regret how much I have hurt you.” He ran a thumb across her cheek. “You do not deserve it. I have failed you.” He gathered her hand in his. “But I can control my feelings no more easily than you can control yours.”

She closed her eyes. “I know, Auguste. I know. I just wish things were different.”

“So do I,” he whispered.

The crumpled letter sailed across the room and bounced off the rim of the wastebasket to join other discarded missives on the floor. Camille poured a glass of wine and imbibed it in two gulps. The crimson liquid dribbled from the glass and streamed down her chin. She poured another. She should not have placed her hope in Monsieur Moreau-Nélaton. The town council of Aisne had rejected her republican monument—they did not see it fitting for a woman to create a portrait of national pride. They feared the town would be offended by her piece.

“Idiots!” she shouted. She guzzled another glass, despite the early morning hour. It had been her second piece of bad news in a week. A critic had called her latest showings tasteless and outside the realm of a woman’s scope. Sensuality burst from her work and every ninny in the Ministry of Fine Arts shifted in their seats to see it come from the hands of a woman. It was the Third Republic, for Christ’s sake. A revolution of machines and progress! How could they yet be so prudish and prehistoric in their thinking?

And now Camille had to restrain her disillusionment and face Mother and Paul. She wished with all her might she had said no to Paul’s plea to visit. She hadn’t set foot in the family apartment the length of her stay in Touraine, nearly two years. She would not go back to living under Mother’s roof, regardless of her hateful reproaches.

Camille dressed in overcoat, gloves, and hat and set out for the family home. She would lift a few foodstuffs from the Claudel pantry to add to her own meager supplies. And she might ask Paul for money—she needed plenty of it, always. The sum she’d attained through her most recent commission had dwindled with the cost of plaster for
The Waltz
and other supplies. She climbed the stairs to the front door and knocked. She felt a stranger on her family’s doorstep, her residence for more than ten years. She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes with impatience.

When the door opened, Corinne’s mouth fell open. “Mademoiselle Claudel . . .”

Camille rolled her eyes and pushed past her, removed her winter wear, and walked into the salon.

The maid placed a tray on the table, stocked with a cup of warmed
chocolate, milk, and sugar. “Thank you.” Camille prepared her cup and drank deeply, grateful for its rich sustenance and warmth.

Mother descended the stairs and entered the salon, carrying her sewing. “You’ve come home, I see.” Her eyes reflected a faraway look, as if she were lost in a daydream. A smile played on her lips—something Camille had not seen in so long, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her teeth.

“I am here only for a visit.” Camille cradled her cup in her hands. “I won’t live under your roof again, Mother. Not to worry.”

Mother narrowed her eyes at her. “I didn’t say you needed to leave.”

“I used the power of my intellect and surmised it.”

She ignored Camille and held up the tiny pair of trousers for closer inspection.

“Is someone having a baby?” Camille asked.

Mother’s pleasant demeanor faded and a hardened shell replaced it. “It’s for your brother, of course.”

Her sunken cheeks and skin possessed a pallor Camille had not noticed at first. What in hell was wrong with her? Stunned, she said nothing. Her brother? As in her dead infant brother, or was Mother pregnant? Camille glanced at her abdomen. “You aren’t with child? At your age—”

Mother exhaled with an angry huff. “Of course not!”

The front door closed with a bang. “
Bonjour? C’est moi,
” Paul called from the entrance. He walked into the salon and kissed Mother’s cheek.

“I have missed you.” Camille stood to embrace him.

“Likewise, sister. You have been gone too long. I didn’t know how I would get along without you at first.” He sat on the edge of the flowered chaise, brushed invisible wrinkles from his trousers, and prepared his own cup of chocolate. “I want to hear about your sojourn and what you have been working on—”

“Spare us the details of your time with that man,” Mother spat. She smoothed the
petit pantalons
and plucked a wooden spool wrapped with navy thread from the basket beside her chair.

Paul gave Mother a silencing look. “As I was saying, I want to hear all about your works, but first, I have a favor to ask of you and if I don’t out with it now, I will lose my nerve.”

“Go on, then,” Camille said, setting her cup in its saucer.

“I am applying to the diplomatic corps.”

“Paul!” Mother exclaimed.

“You are not!” Camille gasped. “You wish to live abroad? Our little Paul?”

“I’m twenty-five and a grown man.”

“Of course you are.” Camille winked at him. “And I am an old maid at twenty-nine.” He laughed. “So what is this favor?” she asked.

Paul brushed his immaculate trousers once more. “I would have a much greater chance of gaining the position if someone of influence could put in a good word for me. Someone, perhaps . . .”

“Like Monsieur Rodin?” Camille finished his sentence.

He nodded. “Yes, someone like Monsieur Rodin. I know we do not have the best relationship.”

“You mean you detest him,” she corrected.

“I am not his biggest supporter, no. But you know why—”

“I know. And yes, of course I will ask him to help you. He is not very fond of your righteous outpourings either, but you are my brother.”

“So you will ask him?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you!” He clasped her hand in his and kissed it. “I owe you so much.”

She laughed. “You may repay me by lending me some money.”

“Whatever you need.” He radiated contentment. “Yet, I still have more news.”

“More than being a foreign diplomat?” Camille’s mouth formed an
O
of mock surprise. “Do not keep us in suspense.”

He laughed and said, “
La Ville
is to be published!”

“Oh, Paul, you are incredible!” Camille leapt from her place on the settee and kissed his cheek. “You have always been talented, but this! A playwright and a diplomat. I could not be prouder, baby brother.”

Mother patted his knee. “You honor this family, unlike your sister.”

“Yes, your sister is quite the harlot,” Camille retorted, “but I’ve heard she has a way with a chisel and hammer. Even still they have decided against a commission for the republican monument in Aisne, despite her skills. Those bastard old men.”

“Watch your tongue in my house,” Mother said.

The foul mood reared its head again and Camille could not corral her words. “Will I corrupt the baby’s innocence?”

Mother’s eyes grew round. “You make a mockery of me in my own house? Get out! Get out, you hateful child!”

Camille slammed her cup on a side table, rattling the china. “Have it your way. I wasn’t feeling up for a visit anyway. Paul, congratulations. We’ll talk more about this later.”

“Camille, wait,” Paul said. “We haven’t seen you in so long. Must we quarrel?”

“I am not welcome here, and frankly, I don’t wish to be.” She turned to go.

“The day you became Monsieur Rodin’s whore, you lost your welcome here.” Mother’s voice became flat, cold as marble on a winter’s day. “You are no longer my daughter. I don’t want to see your face again. Not until you can live with integrity.”

Camille gaped at Mother’s hateful words. “You would disown me?”

Mother looked down to thread her needle.

Camille had not expected the pain that slammed into her, after so many years, after a lifetime of being rejected by her own mother. Yet its full force bore down upon her and she staggered. She would never be enough. Never. Somehow she had hoped that would change.

She threw on her overcoat. In an instant, she ripped open the door and was met by a blast of frigid air.

Paul clamored after her. “Camille!” He flew into the street and crossed his arms against the cold. “You must forgive her. She doesn’t know what she does. Pray for her; pray for acceptance.”

Camille’s unwelcome tears crystallized on her face in the icy wind. “Spare me your religious outpourings, Paul. How am I to forgive a woman who despises me? She has disowned me. Her own daughter! As if I don’t struggle enough. She regrets my existence, and you know that to be true.”

His face drooped and his shoulders fell in resignation. “But I wanted to spend more time with you. You have abandoned me in all of your success.”

She squeezed him with all her might. “I am not so very successful, brother. And I will never abandon you. There are not many I love in this world, yet you are among them.”

“I worry about you,” he whispered. “You cast off any sense of morals. You live in sin.”

Camille fastened the last of the buttons on her coat. “To pour your soul into something you love, to make it beautiful, is the highest form of spirituality there is. You understand that better than most, Paul. To share it with the world is to inspire the godliness you are so fond of. You should know this, yet you condemn me for it. Your writing means everything to you.”

“Not everything,” he said softly.

“I’m going home.” She pulled her hat down for good measure and raced down the street against the black cold.