Rodin's Lover (32 page)

C
amille studied her reflection in the framed looking glass on her atelier wall. She appeared the same on the outside: undulating chestnut tresses bulging from their combs, bright eyes, and a weak chin that receded before it should. But she wasn’t the same. She pulled the fabric of her dress flush against her abdomen and placed a hand on her flat stomach. How far would it extend? She could not see herself round and waddling through her studio, lugging blocks of marble with a heavy load around her middle. What would she do with the child?

Fear wrapped around her throat. What would become of her career?

She needed air. She lifted her wool overcoat from the plaster bust where she’d left it. Rodin’s sloping forehead and grizzled brow stared back at her. Those all-seeing eyes, even in plaster, watched her every move.

“Stop watching me,” she snarled.

Camille dashed through the door. A blast of icy air whipped against her face and the bubble of warmth over her frame dissipated. Would Auguste leave her to toil on her own? He had yet to leave the crazy old hag, even after Rose had attempted to shoot her! Despair hit her like an ocean wave, filled the hollow of her chest, her lungs, until she felt as if she would drown. She perched in the doorway of a condemned building and sucked in steadying breaths.

Then it dawned on her—the alternative way Auguste might view
her pregnancy. He might be overjoyed. Not for the sake of the child, but to make her dependent on him, a woman at home with a child to raise. She would pose no threat to his own fame and she could never truly leave him. He had impregnated her on purpose!

Fury replaced her despair, and propelled her forward once more. Auguste would love her for a time and then abandon her for his art, chase the next beautiful woman who excited him. Though he wouldn’t have to chase them—they already swarmed his studios to be near the Great Rodin.

Camille stalked past two little girls holding hands and giggling as they skipped in front of their parents. Such a happy family, she thought, as envy radiated through her limbs.

The slick soles of her boots slid on a patch of ice and she pitched forward.

“Steady there.” A man on the street caught her.

She righted herself and glanced briefly at the man. A painter, he toted a tableau under one arm and his supplies in the other. Even as an unknown artist he had a greater chance of success than she did, she thought bitterly. She pulled her coat tighter and continued.

A wayward bicyclist weaved between the pedestrians over the uneven cobblestones. At the last moment he dodged a young boy carrying newspapers. “Watch it!” the paperboy shouted. He pushed his cap out of his eyes and promptly slammed into Camille.

Her hand flew to her stomach. Had he knocked it loose?

“Watch it yourself, you ass!” She huffed and moved around the boy.

The roads widened and became more crowded as she pushed down the street. The faces of the pedestrians melted and their bodies became misshapen blobs of color moving in a stream on either side of her, all a blur but their eyes. Their pupils stood out against their glowing white eyeballs as if they were demons. There it was again—that shift of shape as if the human form was not rigid at all, but pliable clay. Camille ducked into a large doorway, slid to the ground, and covered her eyes. She rocked back and forth. Rocking like Papa in his favorite garden swing, like Paul on the rope dangling from a limb of the giant oak in Villeneuve.

Rocking, rocking, rocking.

Minutes became threads, then wisps of smoke. Camille reached
out to catch them, but the image wavered and slipped through her fingers. A sharp metallic rattling came from across the street, so loud she could feel it in her teeth. She covered her ears. The rattling grew louder, cutting through the noise on the street, through the web of confusion and sensations. It split open her sadness. God, how it devoured her head, her heart, her will.

Rattle, rattle, rattle.

Camille peeked warily through one eye to find its source. A woman’s misshapen form in a tattered dress and shawl sat huddled against a nook where a tavern wall met a café. Her daughter rattled a tin cup of coins.

“Spare some change, madame?” the little girl said to an elegant woman passing. The woman’s gait did not slow and she continued on her way. The little girl’s dirt-smeared face fell and her mother squeezed her hand.

Camille stared on in bleak dismay. She would end up this way—abandoned in the street with her baby. Mother already wanted nothing to do with her, and Papa would be disgusted at her shame.

Dispose of it. You can’t even take care of it yourself. Your baby would only hate you as you do your mother.

A hot current of sorrow piped up her throat and the tears began. How had she let this happen?

Rattle, rattle, rattle.

You ungrateful wretch. Do something! If you don’t, Rodin’s band will hunt for you and kill you both. Go now! Dispose of it, or they will kill you!

Camille shot to her feet in terror. Colors bled into each other and the demon pedestrians continued to stream by her. As they approached, she screeched and turned back in the direction of her apartment. Where was Rodin’s band of men? Home—she must hide where it was quiet and safe. Through a blur of tears and agony, she raced away.

Camille shifted uncomfortably in her bed. Minou repositioned herself in the warm spot in the sheets and curled into a ball next to her. The cat was the only one who was there for her. The procedure had been horrid—far worse than she expected. The catholic pills the doctor had given her, the grinding cramps in her abdomen, and the sharp
instrument. Bile bubbled in her throat at the memory. She turned on her side as vomit streamed from her lips and puddled on the floor. She’d done it—she’d rid herself of the threat to her career, saved herself from death.

What threat? Rodin is the threat! Not the child. It is his fault.

She whimpered in pain and exhaustion. The Voice tormented her even now. Where was the relief? It had lied to her! She had saved herself from nothing, from no one. And she loved Auguste—how very much she loved him, in spite of all. Yet where was he? She slipped from bed to clean the mess. He wasn’t there for her. Though she had told him to stay away before, he had never listened, but tracked her like an animal—until now, when she most needed him. Now he avoided her completely.

It’s Rose he wants.

Sweat broke out across her forehead. God, he did want Rose. The desolate truth of her solitude soaked into the hollow inside her and she slid to the floor. A lump of forgotten red clay sat underneath her chair. She dipped it in Minou’s water bowl. A few minutes of reworking the clay between her hands and it regained its moist texture. She put it to her nostrils and inhaled, desperate for the smell of earth, for the memory of Villeneuve’s windswept lands and the wild beauty that had matched her own at one time. What she wouldn’t give to be cradled in the Devil’s rock garden under the moonlight, far from the disillusionment of Paris, from her tattered dreams and the child she would never have. Far from the man who loved her and destroyed her.

Camille dipped the clay into the water again, until the clump became a slick paste. She smeared the red mass on her cheeks and forehead, along her arms. Anything to bring her closer to home, to the time when all was innocence and hope and she did not hate herself. To the time when she knew who she was.

A
uguste sat at his worktable, poring over a sketch of
Balzac
. He had found a proper model at last with similar build, heavy brow, and the same fleshy lips as the great writer. In fact, the model could be his brother. Now to capture the spirit of the intelligent, legendary man—in one month’s time. Auguste wiped his hand on his smock. It was a ludicrous idea. He would not finish the maquette alone for months and months. Zola would be furious—furious like Camille.

Somehow he managed to enrage all those who were important in his life at one time or another. He had let Camille down, again. He frowned. He had tried to take care of her; he paid her rent, helped her gain commissions—he loved her with every bit of his strength. He had even sent three different doctors to her door to assess her, but she had refused them all. He didn’t know what else to do, outside of contacting her family. He reshaped the head of the maquette to make it more square. The result made the forehead too elongated. Frustrated, he squished the head between his fingers until it was flattened and unrecognizable. He couldn’t contact the Claudels—not after the scene in Villeneuve. Never mind the fury he would face from
sa féroce amie
.

He smashed the remainder of the figure and rolled the lump into a ball. Last night Rose had asked him why he didn’t leave her. She had pointed out that he loved Camille, so why bother with her? What
had
kept him at Rose’s side for so long? He couldn’t say, but it must be love. The thought of Rose no longer being a part of his life after so many
years terrified him, made him feel weary and old, cast-off. She was family and to cut her out would be like severing a limb.

Marcel popped his head into the office. “Someone’s here to see you, Monsieur Rodin.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“The mayor and his wife.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled. Then he remembered the robust, naked male posing in the central room of the atelier. He scooted quickly from behind his desk and darted into the work space as if his pants were on fire. “Get down!” He motioned to the model. “Quickly, now!”

“Why?” the model asked.

Auguste pulled the naked man down from his pedestal and shoved him behind a block of marble. “Madame Maire must not see you. You’ll scar her eyes.”

Laughter erupted in the studio. The smile that spread over Auguste’s lips felt strangely foreign, but welcome. The model covered the exposed area between his legs.

Monsieur le Maire and his wife strolled through the atelier, pausing to admire a smattering of busts and half-finished statues.

“Good day, Monsieur Rodin,” the Mayor said when he had joined Auguste by the marble station. The abundance of pomade in his hair made him look like a greased weasel.

“Monsieur le Maire.” Auguste shook his hand. “Madame.”

“I see you are hard at work.”

Auguste said, “An artist’s work is never done.”

They chatted politely for a few moments until Madame Maire grew restless and began to look around. Auguste glanced at the marble block where his model hid. He needed to move them to the next station so the naked man could escape unseen.

“I’ve heard we have monuments to Balzac and Baudelaire to look forward to as well,” the mayor said.

The model peeked out from behind his cover.

“Quite right,” Rodin said absently. He kept his eyes glued on the mayor’s wife. The marble room sat opposite the model’s hiding place, but if he could stand in front of it . . . “Would you care to see the marble room?”

The woman’s face perked up at the suggestion. Auguste inched toward the hiding place to intercept Madame Maire—too late.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I never!”

The model bowed. “Madame Maire, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

A dainty hand shielded her eyes. “Why on earth are you hiding in the nude?”

“To shield you from my naked ass, madame.”

More laughter rippled through the atelier. Monsieur le Maire chuckled at the impropriety.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” Auguste said. “I would be honored to show you the variety of stones we use.”

Crimson stained her cheeks. “Yes, please.”

Auguste smothered a sigh. The last thing he needed was to waste time playing host.
Balzac
awaited. But one could not turn away an important guest, especially an important one who might lobby to secure him funding.

Though Auguste thought it impossible, the crowd grew after luncheon at the Salon. Seven thousand works, he had been told, graced the vast space of la Galerie des Machines, the very same that had housed the Exposition Universelle almost ten years earlier.
Monument to
Balzac
, in all its revolutionary glory, stood positioned in the center of the hall, just down from
The Kiss
.

Auguste found the juxtaposition of the two works ironic: the one, a monument to his enduring love for Camille; the other, a representation of the changing art world—the pivot to his aesthetic.

“It is a chef d’oeuvre.” Gustave Geffroy motioned to
Balzac
. “A monument to modern sculpture.”

“Thank you,” Auguste said. “Seven years of my life and my final state commission. This one nearly killed me.”

Gustave eyed his friend with curiosity. “And
The Gates of Hell
? It will remain unfinished?”

“I’m not dead yet.”

Geffroy laughed, then drank from his brandy glass. He wiped his mustache with a handkerchief after each drink. Auguste had never
heard the serious man so much as chuckle. He considered Geffroy’s amusement a victory.

“Rodin!” Octave Mirbeau spotted them through the crowd and made his way to their side. “Congratulations. It’s an absolute marvel.” He clapped him on the back.

“So
Balzac
isn’t a slab of beef?” Auguste asked. “A snowman beginning to melt? Or my personal favorite, it’s Balzac in a straitjacket being led to an asylum.”

Octave chuckled, his wing-shaped mustache looking more comical than ever. He stopped abruptly when he noticed Rodin’s expression. “Those criticisms are from the
bons bourgeois
. They know nothing of art. Surely you aren’t listening to them?”

“And Zola?” Auguste challenged him. “He hasn’t answered my letters.”

“He has been busy, I suspect.” Octave sounded amused.

“
J’accuse!
” The three men said in unison.

Zola’s newspaper article accused the government of anti-Semitism for condemning a Jewish man without proof, creating national outrage.

“It’s about time someone stood up for the poor bastard. Dreyfus is innocent,” Geffroy said.

“Don’t say that too loudly or you’ll find yourself in a brawl,” Octave replied. “There are plenty who would like to see him hanged.”

Auguste shuffled his feet. He knew better than to state his views about the exiled soldier. To be vocal about such a volatile topic could undermine his connections. The country had been divided on the integration of Jews since the Middle Ages. He would not dip his toe in that pool. It could be career suicide.

Octave’s dark eyes widened. Geffroy and Rodin followed his gaze to a clot of artists and spectators gathering around
Balzac
. As the group grew larger, the din boomed from the rafters of the glass building. Several gentlemen shouted at each other and waved their arms about as if preparing to fight.

“What are we waiting for?” Octave said, a gleam in his eye. He always liked a good story. “Let’s see what all the commotion is about.”

Gustave and Octave made their way to the monument, but
Auguste remained rooted to the floor. Within moments, both gentlemen had joined a shouting match of their own.

Rodin eyed the crowd with apprehension. He neither knew nor cared why they argued, and to hear more mean-spirited comments about
Balzac
along with bearing Zola’s snub was too much to carry today. Weariness throbbed in his bones. He was an old man of fifty-eight, dressed in a black redingote, attending what felt like his funeral. The
Monument to
Balzac
was complete; he was proud of the piece. He had nothing more to say on the topic. All he wished for was peace, a block of marble, and a quiet room. He sauntered silently, alone, toward the exit.

A golden tide of sunshine flowed through the windows and cascaded onto the floor. Camille cursed the blasted rays. Her head throbbed and the early summer heat did not help. Soon she’d have to leave the studio for food and wine after many days indoors. Weeks? She squinted at the blinding light. At least she’d managed a letter to Paul, who was far away in China. She had told him about the wretched clinic, about her confusion and remorse, though she didn’t know why. Paul had not comforted her in her time of need, but condemned her. He had called her a sinner, told her she had blackened her soul and would be damned unless she repented.

“‘Truly children are a gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward,’” Paul had quoted the Bible. “‘Thou shalt not kill’” and “‘Unrepentant murderers cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.’”

But Camille would never be fit for heaven. She had never been pure of heart or deed, a dutiful child—or adult, for that matter. She had merely followed her heart and her passion. Surely Paul’s God could understand that? And hell? What could be worse than the torment she now suffered? She boiled in her own hate—hatred of the ministers; of those who professed their friendship and love, yet abandoned her.

A new image had come to her in the night. A young woman on her knees, her hands in the air, imploring a man to stay with her, but a dark angel spirited him away, the angel of age.
The Age of Maturity
. She had scrambled on all fours to the desk and scratched the name and a rough outline of her vision on the back of an envelope.

She cackled at the irony—a new idea recorded on the envelope carrying her latest rejection. She had her art in spite of them! She would make more beautiful things for the world, whether they wanted them or not. And one day, someone would look on her collection and be grateful, inspired. She still believed that. They could not defeat her.

She launched herself to her feet. “Screw them all!” She stumbled over a chair leg and fell face forward. Her abdomen smashed against the floor. She cried out and clutched her middle.

A pointless gesture.

“Thank God there is no baby,” she said bitterly, to no one. The feeling she had done the right thing had yet to flood her senses. What would fill the gaping cavity in her chest? Instead, her disquietude was the final stroke in a barrage of loss.

“When?” she screamed. When would it be gone? The guilt, the horror of that day. The grief for all she had lost.

Paul had lectured her. “You serve your art, but it consumes you as greed would. And that is all this is, Camille. Your lust for success has no merit. Repent and find your strength. The voices you hear are a rebuke from the Devil.”

How she had wanted to scream when she had read his words. He parroted phrases that condemned a beloved sister in need of his help. The Voice was not a punishment, but a symptom of her regret. So much regret.

A thudding came at the door.

“Go away!” she said in an uneven timbre.