Rodin's Lover (8 page)

A
uguste pushed an array of clay maquettes to the corner of his desk and opened his sketchbook. He thumbed through its pages, careful not to smudge the charcoal drawings, until he came upon a series of cathedrals. He squinted and pulled the book closer to his face. His blasted eyesight grew worse by the day, but he refused to wear spectacles. They warped his perception of surfaces, which did him no good. He rescued a drawing pencil teetering on the edge of his desk and flipped to a fresh page. The outline of his
Gates of Hell
, its facade adorned with tormented figures, emerged on the page in several strokes.

He paused and tapped the paper with his pencil. Hell meant longing without respite, never attaining satisfaction. He drew a woman, desire on her features, and a man reaching for her, his agony plain. Auguste’s longing took shape in the form of lust for his legacy, that magical inspired moment—the scent of a woman’s skin.

The sound of shuffling feet alerted him to a visitor, and he looked up from his drawings. Alfred Boucher, his friend and colleague, stood in the doorway.

“Come in, Alfred. Sit.” He motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk.

Boucher eyed the brown stain and the fine dust covering everything. “I prefer to stand, thank you. I’ve just had my trousers cleaned.”

Rodin took in the joy that lit Boucher’s eyes. “You look cheery. What’s happened?”

“I have just heard,” Alfred said, his voice bubbling with exuberance. “I have won the Prix de Rome.”

The winning artist received a stipend to study for eighteen months in the Renaissance capital, a very competitive prize and quite difficult to obtain. Nearly every artist Auguste knew had applied and failed.

He jumped to his feet and extended his hand. “Congratulations! Marvelous news.” He shook Boucher’s hand vigorously. “You are on your way.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Despite Auguste’s show of enthusiasm, the familiar tide of yearning rushed over him each time a friend advanced and he ran in place.

“When do you leave for Italy?” he asked.

“I don’t begin my studies for another two months, but I depart within a fortnight.” He cleared his throat. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I have a favor to ask of you.” Rodin raised his tawny eyebrows. “I’ll be leaving behind a protégé.”

Auguste returned to his chair. “I am far too busy to take on a student.”

“She’s not just any student.”

“She?” He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Is this the woman you are sleeping with?”

“Good God, no!” Alfred said, astounded at such an accusation. “She is my pupil and nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, Alfred, but the women I have tutored do not commit themselves to their studies as heartily as they should and rarely advance. I couldn’t possibly devote more time to someone who isn’t serious.”

Alfred cracked a smile. “You’ll never meet a student more serious than Mademoiselle Claudel. Her love of sculpting rivals yours and mine. And it is more than that.” He leaned on the edge of Auguste’s desk to meet his eye. “She is . . . special. She learns quickly and I would call her skill near advanced.”

Auguste grunted in disbelief. “She has talent?”

“She needs direction and practice, but her will is fierce, her devotion unquestionable. I daresay she is a woman possessed. And yes, she’s the most talented student I have ever worked with to date.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“Meet her. Take a look at her work. If you aren’t satisfied with what you see, decline.” He straightened once more. “I will find someone else in your stead if you aren’t interested. But I am loath to send her an inferior tutor whom she will quickly surpass in skill.”

Auguste heaved a sigh. “I’ll give her a chance, but please warn her. I have no time for tomfoolery and if she cannot keep pace with my instruction—”

“Mademoiselle Claudel will show her work one day. Soon, I’d say, especially under your direction.”

Rodin held up his hand to halt Alfred’s assumption. “Now, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Alfred smiled and put on his derby hat once more. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Camille’s shoulders and neck ached with fatigue. She had been working on Paul’s bust for hours without rest. She rubbed her sore hands. “Is there any bread left?”

“It’s gone.” Emily bent over a bucket of plaster and stirred the thick mixture.

She groaned. “I bought an entire loaf yesterday. You ate it all again?”

“There’s no need to be cross,” Emily said. “We will get another.”

“
We
, or do you mean
me
? You haven’t paid your share of the expenses this month and now you eat all the bread.”

“If you had not insisted we purchase the most expensive tools, I would have paid you already.” Emily flicked her wet hands over the bucket of plaster, showering the floor in snow white droplets.

“You wish to work with inferior supplies?” Camille knitted her brow. “I would prefer not to cast our lot with artists who lack proper instruction and materials. No one takes their work seriously. If you’d like to join their ranks, then go.”

Was she so abnormal that no one understood the depth of her passion, of what she would sacrifice for her vision? One day there would be someone who grasped her driving need to create.

“You don’t need to be so testy. Of course I do not want inferior supplies.” Emily tossed a rag at her. “And I have already sent for more money from Papa.”

Camille dropped into a chair and rubbed her face. “I’m sorry. I am hungry, is all.”

Emily saw a figure approach the door through the window and scurried to greet the unknown visitor. “
Oui
, monsieur?” she said.

“Rodin. Auguste Rodin.” The man removed his black beret. “Monsieur Boucher sent me to evaluate your work.”

“Please, come in. I am Mademoiselle Fawcett. And this is Mademoiselle Claudel.”

Camille’s eyes fixed upon the stout man with fiery hair and flowing beard. It was the sculptor at the fountain who had been surrounded by models, the one who had looked so important. “You are the tutor Monsieur Boucher has sent?” She smoothed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes.

After a lengthy apology, Monsieur Boucher had explained why he must take his leave. Though the news had saddened Camille, she could not help but wish the best for her kindly tutor. Ever generous, he had assured her of Auguste Rodin’s accomplishments and talents, though she doubted his assertion that Rodin’s talents rivaled his own.

Monsieur Rodin nodded, and moved through the atelier without invitation, pausing to peer at each piece. Intensity exuded from his person.

Was the sculptor timid or self-important? Camille could not tell, for he did not say a word. Confidence emanated from his square shoulders and direct gaze, yet he did not have an exalted air about him. Intrigued, she watched him tour the atelier. The skin between his eyes wrinkled over a sloping nose. What could he be thinking?

Despite her interest in the sculptor, Camille pretended to busy herself with cleaning and rearranging her tools. Emily folded her hands like a well-mannered Englishwoman and leaned against the wall.

Monsieur Rodin paused to assess several of Amy’s unfinished pieces.

“Those belong to a student who no longer works with us, monsieur,” Emily explained.

The gentleman nodded, then continued to Emily’s Roman soldier, and finally to Paul’s bust. He leaned closer, eyes scrunched. Camille held her breath. Rodin circled the piece twice, pausing to view it from several angles.

“Whose piece is this?” he asked.

“It is Mademoiselle Claudel’s,” Emily said in a rush.

His gaze flickered over Camille’s frame and returned to
Paul at Thirteen
. “These others are yours, I presume?” He motioned to several other studies Camille had begun but not yet finished.

“
Oui
. They are mine.” Tension vibrated in her shoulders and neck. The man distinguished her style easily from the others, but did he like them or not?

“This is your best.” He placed his hand atop Paul’s head. “But the contrast is too great between the fabric and his skin. Also between his skull and hairline.”

Her stomach tightened. “Thank you, monsieur, for pointing out my faults.”

Rodin did not react, but examined her array of tools. He picked up a molding knife, examined it, and returned it to the pile on the table.

Camille clenched her fists at her sides, poised to receive more criticism. She did not know why, but suddenly she cared very much what the mysterious gentleman had to say. His presence unsettled her.

“I will send word tomorrow to inform you of my decision,” he said at last. “If I am unable to tutor you, I will send recommendations for others.” He replaced his beret on his head. “For now, I must go.”

Rodin strode to the door and paused. He locked eyes with Camille. She raised her chin, determined to appear calm under his unwavering gaze, though she quivered inside.

“Thank you for sharing your work with me, mesdemoiselles,” he said. “Good day.”

“Good day, monsieur. And thank you!” Emily tripped over herself to see him out and close the door behind him.

Camille stood stunned in the middle of the room, struggling to pinpoint her feelings. This Rodin had swept through her atelier in a flurry, criticized her quickly, and disappeared. Had he found her lacking in ability? She thought of his gaze once more and his intensity—vigor, barely contained by limbs and flesh, rolled off him and filled the room. Such a quiet man, he was, with a large presence.

“I guess we will hear his verdict tomorrow,” Emily said, picking up her chisel.

After another long moment, Camille returned to the bust of Paul
and worked with renewed alacrity. She would show Monsieur Rodin smooth lines—if he deemed them worthy of his attention.

She worked long beyond sunset, until her fingers throbbed with cold.

Auguste soaked a hunk of bread in his cabbage soup and gulped down a salty bite. The young woman had too much pride. He could see it in the arrogant tilt of her chin. Mademoiselle Claudel had not been broken by rejection as he had, yet he sensed she had steeled herself for criticism just the same. She was a woman in a man’s world, after all. He could not help but be impressed by her passion. It was immediately apparent in her pieces.

He slurped down his soup until the spoon clinked against the bottom of his tin bowl. Camille Claudel would be a difficult pupil, but she held a great deal of promise—if she would listen. He mused at the way she had rankled at his criticism. The other student showed no more talent than his mother, who had dabbled in painting on rainy afternoons, but he would work with both women if he chose to visit the atelier again.

“Auguste, would you read to me this evening?” Rose’s whiny voice never failed to grate on his nerves. “I have missed you this long day.” She kissed him on his crown of dark amber hair.

“Not tonight. I have work to do.”

Her face fell. “You avoid me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” His voice remained calm, though he prickled at her words. He tired of the same arguments.

Sensing his irritation, Rose wrung her hands and said, “I will send up a pot of tea and biscuits.”