Rodin's Lover (30 page)

A drumming sound beat inside Camille’s head, or was it in the wall? She rolled over on her belly and covered her head with a pillow. She wished everything would fade away. All she wanted was sleep.

The drumming grew louder.

“Open the door, Camille!” Auguste’s muffled voice pounded between her ears, behind her eyes, in her chest.

Auguste was the cause. This was his fault. He had sucked her into his world, taken her into his care, his little mistress, and paraded her around so he could feel like a man.

To take credit for your work. He doesn’t love you. He uses you.

“Shut up!” she screamed. The Voice had plagued her since that horrible day when the rejection had come—the day Mother had turned her back on her for good. She groaned at the pain. And what of the voices? She had gone mad! Insane like the men who shuffled through the city streets, mumbling to themselves in the seedy parts of town, or those wretched souls who were locked away in a tower. She sobbed, soaking her sheets with bitter tears.

She would be one of them, locked away from the world.

The drumming came again. “I am coming in!” Auguste called.

She sat up and pushed her gnarled locks off her face. “Don’t come in! I don’t want you here.”

The turn of key in lock, the creak of door hinges, and his footsteps boomed in the ceiling, against the walls. Camille covered her ears and fell back against her pillows. “Please,” she whimpered. “Leave me alone.”

The booming ceased next to her bed and a shadow fell over her. “Darling, you have not been to work all week,” Auguste said. “Are you ill?”

She ran a hand over her rumpled chemise and pulled the bedcovers to her chin. “I don’t want to work today. I’m too tired.”

He frowned and sat beside her. “You have been in bed for more than a week.”

She threw her arm across her eyes. “They don’t want me.”

He stroked her hair. “Who doesn’t want you?”

He will seduce you, have his way with you, and leave you with nothing. Just like the others. Push him away! Bite him!

She thrashed in the covers. “Make it stop!”

“I am here.” Auguste scooped her up and held her close, rubbing her back.

“The Voice.” Camille quivered in his arms. “It taunts me and tells me to do terrible things.”

“Let my voice be louder.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids. “
Je t’aime.
”

His voice will stamp out your own. He sets you on fire and watches you burn in agony.

“
Je t’aime,
” he said again, cradling her gently in his arms.

She burrowed closer to him. The soothing scent of his skin wrapped around her like a blanket.

“I am here,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “I will help you. We must find a way to treat this . . . thing that has seized you. We’ll find a doctor.”

“No!” she said. “They will lock me up with the crazies.”

Auguste stared at her as if unsure how to respond. Finally he said, “Very well, but I don’t want you to spend so much time alone.”

“But they don’t want me,” she said with labored breath.

“Who,
mon amour
?”

“The town council, the ministers—or Mother. There’s to be no republican statue, no commissions. Mother has banished me from the house. The old cow. She was sewing baby clothes for my dead brother!” She peered at him through swollen eyes. “She has lost it, Auguste. And I’m”—a sob rose up in her throat—“I am like her.”

He cradled her face in his hands. “
Écoute-moi
. You are a true artist. Do not let those . . . those rudimentary—”

“Blowhards!”

His eyebrows shot up in a question.

“Paul has befriended several American writers.”

He smiled and gathered her hands to his lips. Her humor had returned. “Do not allow those blowhards to rattle your confidence. You have never allowed them to in the past. Don’t begin now. We will show them your wonderful pieces and one day, they will feel foolish.” He kissed her forehead. “As for your mother, she is a simple woman who is both jealous and frightened of your talents. Your brilliance instigates fear. I have suffered from it myself for many years.”

“I despise how my sex defines me in their eyes.” The words left a bitter residue on her tongue. “It does not make me less of a sculptor.”

“Quite the opposite.” He squeezed her hands. “You are one of a kind, my darling, and one day they will champion your work. But you must be strong.”

Camille melted in his embrace once more. She would fight the men controlling her fate the only way she knew how—by creating more, by pushing harder, by leaving them breathless with emotion when they examined her sculptures. They could not force her to create something banal, a betrayal of her luminous inspiration. She would not ignore her need to portray beauty.

“I will heat some water for a bath,” Auguste said. “Take some time to soak and relax, and then we’ll meet Mathias for dinner. He has an idea for a commission for you. The bust you made of my large head is exquisite.” He smiled.

“You love only yourself.” She punched him playfully in the arm.

Auguste’s laughter bellowed, sending a warm rush, the first in a week, through her body. She gathered her hair and twirled the ends together into one long, twisted mass and slipped out of bed.

She would try again.

A
uguste turned to a clean page in his ledger and sorted his bills into piles. He had been in a foul mood all week—ever since he’d received word the ministers did not care for his design of Hugo, slated to be placed in the Panthéon. If he did not have their blessing, the commission would go to someone else. He glanced at the clock on his studio wall. Any minute, he would have his answer. He
must
control his emotions. Losing his temper would not help his cause.

Monsieur Blanchet knocked at the office door.

“
Entrez
.”

The gentleman entered, removed his hat, and turned it round and round in his hands. “Monsieur Rodin.” He nodded.

Auguste’s mood darkened further. The man had bad news.

“I will come right to the point,” Blanchet said. “We have decided against your piece for the Panthéon.”

Auguste tossed his quill pen on the desk. “I give you an innovative design, something powerful, but you wish for trite and overwrought. Something Victor Hugo would be appalled by if he were still alive.”

Monsieur Blanchet grimaced and looked at the floor. He was a timid gentleman and clearly felt uncomfortable delivering such news.

“
Merde!
” Auguste shouted. To hell with tempering his emotions.

Monsieur Blanchet’s shoulders sagged like those of a scolded schoolboy. “But wait, Monsieur Rodin. It is not a complete loss. I
made a proposal to the committee on your behalf and they have accepted it—if you agree, that is.”

“Go on,” Rodin said through gritted teeth.

“We’d like to keep your version of Hugo and place it in a garden in Paris, and commission another. One that matches the proportions needed for a building as grand as the Panthéon.”

Auguste went silent. He did not have time for a second monument, and yet, this was not only a generous offer; he was certain it was the only offer he would receive. If he did not comply, they would ask Jules Dalou. And he’d rather lose an arm than let that happen.

“I expect to be well paid,” Auguste said at last. He pointed to the door of his atelier. “And you may see yourself out.”

Blanchet paled. “Monsieur Rodin, I—”

“I accept.” Auguste grabbed a nearby maquette and squashed the form between his strong hands. “Now, as you can see I am extremely busy. I have another masterpiece to throw together.”

Blanchet’s jaw set in a grim line. “Good day, monsieur. I look forward to your next concept.”

Once the man had left, Auguste threw the wad of clay with all his might, knocking a study of Camille to the ground. The piece cracked open on impact.

The swish of buffing cloth over marble soothed Camille’s nerves. She dipped her cloth once more in the polish made of pulverized lamb bone, and rubbed the bust of
La Petite Châtelaine
with a loving hand. In truth, the piece needed no more polishing—its diaphanous surface already gleamed. But Camille needed to keep her hands busy. Monsieur Dayot, fine arts minister, would arrive any moment to assess both the plaster and stoneware versions of
The Waltz
. The overwhelming positive response at the Salon last month had captured his interest—proof that what she needed to succeed was to be seen.

She wiped her brow with her arm. The sour odor of nervous sweat permeated her dress sleeves. It was unfortunate she must meet the minister before she’d had a bath. She looked down at her trembling hands. She must gather her wits. She grabbed the carafe of wine on her worktable and filled a glass to the brim before gulping it down. Her
future lay in Monsieur Dayot’s hands. If he liked the piece, he would recommend it to the fine arts director for purchase in marble or bronze. She needed the money—and the recognition—desperately.

A tapping at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“
J’arrive!
” She removed her stained smock and opened the atelier door.

Monsieur Dayot was a smartly dressed, handsome man with high cheekbones and silky auburn hair. A cigarette dangled from his full bottom lip. “Mademoiselle Claudel?” The cigarette tumbled to the ground. He covered it with his foot and twisted several times with force. After inspecting it, he stamped on the stub again to verify the fiery glow had been snuffed out.

Camille raised an eyebrow at his vehemence. “I’m certain we have no chance of fire.”

Monsieur Dayot laughed and his cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “My cousin’s house caught fire from a cigarette and they lost everything they owned. One must be vigilant.”

“And vigilant you were, monsieur,” Camille said, not bothering to hide her amusement. She motioned him inside. “You are here to see
The Waltz
? Right this way.”

He followed her indoors, pausing to take in her work space: the secondhand worktables stacked with abandoned maquettes, a few chairs crusted with dried plaster, and a myriad of pedestals and wire armatures.

“I will show you
The Waltz
, of course, but would you care to see anything else?” Camille did not wait for his response, but moved around the room removing sheets and towels from her works.

Monsieur moved from one bust to another. “You created this without assistance?” He touched the cool marble bust of
La Petite Châtelaine
. “Your tutor is Monsieur Rodin, yes?”

“No one assisted me. Well, except for the fairies and elves that sneak into my studio at night.”

“The elves?” He laughed, a smart, short laugh reserved for noblemen and those who are impressed by their own power.

“Why, of course.” She smiled to soften her sarcasm. “Let us be honest, monsieur. No woman could do such work without help. We both know that to be a fact.”

Monsieur Dayot gazed at her as if deciding whether or not she was serious or speaking in jest.

She smiled and led him to a stand near the window. “Here is
The Waltz
.”

Two dancers whisked over a dance floor in a passionate stance, their faces emblazoned with the rapture of music, of love and uncertainty of their future.

His eyes widened. “I am speechless.”

She smiled. “I hope that is a positive reaction.”

“The movement is magnificent. They appear alive.” He bent closer to examine each surface. “But the sensuality . . . it’s erotic.” His face flamed at the word.

Camille had never seen a man blush so often.

“And they are nude,” he continued.

“Why, yes they are,” she said, her tone light. “There is nothing more beautiful than the human form, wouldn’t you agree?”

He moved around the piece slowly, a frown ever present on his features.

He doesn’t like it. Save yourself the humiliation. Smash it with a broom handle!

The Voice. Camille froze. Why did it have to come now? She glanced around the room, suddenly frantic.

Monsieur bent over the piece, absorbed.

She moved swiftly to the wine carafe, poured, and took several large swallows. She would drown the hateful words.

“Their organs are rather close.” Monsieur Dayot straightened. “This piece would scandalize the director. Perhaps if you clothed the pair—”

“Clothed?” Her voice cracked. “Their nudity adds to the pair’s sensuality, their longing. To cover their forms would hide all that is striking about this piece. Such prudery is antithetical to my vision.”

He stiffened. “I cannot recommend this in good faith as it is. The sensuality overwhelms the piece. The director would not agree to something so erotic made by a woman’s hands. I’m sorry. You clearly have talent, but the image is too profane.”

Desperation clawed at her hope. “If I rework the piece, will you reconsider?”

“I don’t know—”

“Please, monsieur. You said yourself I am talented. Give me a chance to prove it.”

He turned back to the piece and stared at it for a long moment. “Very well.”

A rush of air left her lungs. “Thank you. I will send word when it has been adjusted and is complete.”

Monsieur Dayot stalked to the door and placed his hat on his head. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

Camille closed the door behind him. Monsieur Dayot was handsome and self-assured. He must have had lovers. How could he see this piece as profane?

Because you are a harlot. You sell yourself and he can see that plainly.

“No!” She squeezed her eyes closed against the wretched voice that belittled her at every turn. “Leave me alone!”

She poured herself another glass of wine.

Camille lifted the edge of her gown and stepped over a puddle in the street. The odor of urine burned her nostrils and she increased her pace. A romp through Montmartre meant an assault of odors: Fresh baked bread alternated with human waste; savory pork crackling mingled with cheap perfume wafting from brothel doorways. By day, artists littered the streets; by night, the whores, thieves, and those seeking entertainment of the most sinful kind emerged. A city within a city, boasting a colorful gluttony of pleasure. Camille squeezed Auguste’s arm. She had looked forward to going to the infamous
Le Chat Noir
since she’d arrived in Paris more than a decade ago. Her former male classmates had raved about the club. Polite society considered it an abhorrence, which made it all the better, she thought.

“They want me to start over.” Auguste matched her stride.

He had been chattering about his commission, though Camille found it hard to focus on his words. Too many sights and sounds swirled around her.

“I can’t believe they did not like Hugo,” she said. “What faults could they possibly see in it?”

A metallic tang tingled in the back of her throat. She wet the pad of her tongue against the roof of her mouth in an effort to dissolve the
taste—the warning that the Voice was hovering on the edge of her mind.

Not tonight, she pleaded. She wanted to enjoy herself.

“They did not like the shape of the base or Hugo’s state of undress,” Auguste said. “But I covered his manhood, for Christ’s sake.”

“When will you cease to care about their opinions? You are established. You have many admirers and regular work.” She pushed away the envy that curled her toes when she compared his success to her struggle.

“I can’t just ignore their request. It’s Victor Hugo.” Auguste tucked his hand under her elbow and maneuvered her around a gaggle of rowdy bourgeois, decked in top hats and their best suits. They waited for Moulin de la Galette to open, though they had clearly been drinking for hours.

“
Soûlards,
” he muttered.

“Precisely,” Camille said, ignoring the pack of drunks. “It’s Victor Hugo—the very reason you should cling to your vision. The man would balk at a trite representation of himself. And the public would shrug at another hero in bronze, volume tucked under his arm, or worse, a sword in his hand to slay injustice.” She rolled her eyes at the thought.

When they reached 12 Rue Victor Massé, they joined the steady line of patrons streaming inside
Le Chat Noir
. The converted house rocked on its foundation to the beat of a party tune on the piano, and the hum of laughter and voices. Light blazed in every window. Camille glanced up at a sign swinging from its balustrade: A black cat sat on its hind end, its feline grin an invitation to join the mischief.