Rodin's Lover (13 page)

The look she had come to recognize appeared on his features once more. “You critique my work, mademoiselle?”

She flipped her knife over and over again on the table next to her plate. “Can’t we all learn from criticism?”

He did not answer, but fixed his blue eyes upon her. She squirmed under his gaze—he had a way of making her feel exposed.

“So we can,” he said at last.

“You are under a lot of pressure to produce. You mustn’t let the ministers come between you and your passion, though they may try.”

“They certainly try. But we artists must band together to beat them down.”

“Us against them!”

He held up his glass. “Us against them. To always learning, to moving forward!”

She clanged her glass against his and smiled. To moving forward, indeed.

The day’s light sputtered and waned and with it, artists vacated their posts to head home. Marcel, the last of them, waved his hat at Rodin and closed the door behind him. Camille should have left as well, but did not look up from her task. She chipped another fragment of marble away. The set of feet would soon need to be sanded and polished. After her fifth pair, she could create them almost without thinking.

Monsieur Rodin flitted about the studio, lighting the lamps. Soon, the shadows retreated to the corners of the room and crept toward the gulf of ceiling and the darkened loft. He planned to continue working. Camille glanced at a woman’s bust across from her station. Her eyes appeared suspicious of Camille’s intentions.

“I am here to work, nothing more,” she whispered to the bust. How had the object read her thoughts? She puffed out a sharp breath and blew away the crumbled bits of stone covering the feet.

Rodin bent over a study of a seated man leaning forward on his hand to contemplate theories of the universe.

“I would place his hand slightly over his mouth. As he is now, he appears as if he is posing.” Camille put down her carving chisel and selected a rasp to buff the rounded hump of each heel.

Rodin gave her a sidelong glance.

She smiled. She supposed he did not expect her input, but she was no longer a lowly assistant; he respected her opinions . . . or so she assumed. If he did not, she would offer them anyway.

“The muscles in his legs and arms appear flexed,” she continued. “He looks as if he might spring from his seat, rather than lose himself in his thoughts. I suppose it depends on the point you are trying to convey.”

He rotated the maquette on its base. “I think you may be right.”

Camille smiled. They had spent a lot of time working together lately. Though the growing familiarity between them unnerved her, she couldn’t seem to leave when the others did, especially when she might have time with him alone.

The soft
thwap
of Rodin’s tools floated above their heads and was lost in the chasm of the ceiling. Camille moved to his side to view his piece. “Lovely.” His eyes softened. She could sense the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth that emanated from him. She felt a burn spread from her core through her limbs and crawl across her cheeks.

Slowly, his hand stretched toward her. Her heart stopped. He paused for an instant, then brushed the hair off her forehead, his fingertips feather light over her skin. The burn deepened until she felt ablaze. She dared not move, or even breathe.

Her voice came out in a whisper. “I am your student.” She knew his reputation with women, though she had yet to see any truth behind the rumors. Still, he had everything and everyone he wanted—but he would not have her. Yet her fingers trembled.

“You are a brilliant woman.” His voice came low, guttural. He reached for her again and cupped her face.

Without thinking, Camille closed her eyes and leaned into the cradle of his palm. Her heart pounded against her rib cage. How right it felt, his hand upon her cheek. But she couldn’t risk her reputation, regardless of her own desire. No one would take her seriously. She would be nothing more than a mime, his student, not an artist in her own right. Her eyes flicked open to find him inches from her face.

She pulled away, her knees suddenly weak. “I need to go. Mother will wonder where I am.”

If he knew Camille better, he would realize Mother no longer assumed she would be home to dine with the family, or even cared as to her whereabouts. She grabbed her hat from the rack near the door and tied its black ribbons hastily under her chin. At the door, she glanced over her shoulder a final time. “
Bonsoir
.”

Rodin raised his hand in a silent wave.

Camille stepped into the night to flee the tenderness of his caress, and the tide of emotion sweeping through her.

1885–1887

La Valse
The Waltz

C
amille swirled the last bite of pigeon and tender onion in the wine sauce and chewed it thoughtfully. She needed to scrub her stone this afternoon and prep it for chiseling. The last block of marble Jessie had chosen had a vein running through it and the blasted thing had split in two. Her friend should know better to avoid weak stones by now, but then, that was probably Rodin’s reason for not appointing her a
praticien
. She glanced at the empty chair at the dining table. Jessie worked through lunch. Camille often did as well, but today she needed sustenance. The hammering, chiseling, and filing she had ahead of her would take a great deal of strength.

As would her avoidance of Rodin.

Mother scraped her fork against her plate in an uncharacteristic show of poor manners. Camille flinched at the noise. “What was that for?”

“I am speaking to you and you pretend as if you don’t hear me,” she said. “What is going through that head of yours? You’re blushing.”

Corinne bustled into the room, carrying an assortment of letters. She handed one to Camille. “Can I get something for you, mademoiselle?” She asked as she placed the remainder of the stack in front of Mother.

“Thank you—no.”

Camille opened the single letter and quickly scanned the text. “The Société des Artistes Français has accepted
Giganti
!” She squealed. “It
will be displayed in their May Salon!” She jumped to her feet and pecked Mother’s cheek. “Perhaps I will receive a commission from a patron.”

This was it! The beginning of selling her work and being admired.

The beginning of being loved.

Madame Claudel’s blue eyes tightened. She patted the place where Camille had kissed her with a stiff hand. “I suppose all of the money we have spent on you is not a complete waste.”

That was the only compliment Camille would receive from her, and so be it. She did not care—her work would be on display for all of Paris to see!

“I must tell Monsieur Rodin.” The mention of his name ignited the burning once more, and it spread from her middle to her chest and face. She laughed aloud. The man made her feel as if she were on fire. Suddenly everything made her happy.

Mother smoothed the lace tablecloth with her hands. “We haven’t finished our meal. Sit down.”

“I am quite finished, Mother.” Camille kissed her hastily on the cheek, snatched up a hat, and dashed through the door.

Auguste squinted at Giganti, then refocused on his portrait. He nudged the shoulder of the clay study with his thumb and a wreath of shadow draped the figure’s abdomen.
Parfait.

His stomach gurgled loud enough for the model to hear. Giganti held back a laugh. The model had learned to be restrained, particularly under Auguste’s watchful eye. If he so much as drew in a breath, he would be chastised.

Auguste stepped back from the armature. “Let us break. Apparently I need to eat.” He had been unable to think of food the past week, since the night he had touched Camille. Did she find him repulsive, a man—her teacher, no less—much too old for her? But she was a woman, not a girl, he reminded himself. He scrubbed at the clay crust on his hands. She had leaned into his palm, eyes closed and lips parted. Heat shot through him at the memory. But since that evening, she had managed to avoid being alone with him. He glanced about his atelier. He wondered when she would arrive—

That instant, Camille barged through the atelier door, a letter in hand. Her lovely features glowed with happiness.

Warmth flooded his chest. She had received her admission letter. He watched her dash across the room toward Mademoiselle Lipscomb. She found her friend huddled in a corner, crouched beside an armature, her eyes level with the plaster hem of a woman’s dress.

“It’s been accepted!” she shouted.

Mademoiselle Lipscomb embraced her friend and the two hopped up and down, then pulled each other round and round in a circle like schoolgirls.

Auguste smiled. So full of life and excitement, they were.

“Congratulations!” Mademoiselle Lipscomb embraced her again.

Giganti, now dressed, joined them and Camille launched herself into his arms. The model laughed and twirled her around before placing her on her feet. She leaned in to kiss him. Auguste felt his joy contract. Giganti slung his arm around her shoulders possessively.

Perhaps they were lovers. The thought hit him like a blow to the gut. No wonder Camille had fled from him that night. He turned his back on the happy trio and curled his hands into fists.

“Monsieur!” The musical voice that haunted his dreams,
her
voice, called to him. He looked over his shoulder to find a beaming Camille. “Did you have something to do with this?” She waved the letter at him.

“I thought
Giganti
deserved recognition,” he said. He had spoken at length about her talent to his critic friends and written a letter to the director of the
société
on her behalf. “It’s a remarkable piece.”

Camille crossed the room, stood on the tips of her toes, and placed a kiss upon his cheek. A triumphant smile lit her face. Auguste’s jealousy dissolved.
Dieu
, he loved to make her happy—and that frightened the hell out of him. He nodded and continued to his office and closed the door.

Paul perched on the faded velvet pillow in the window seat of Camille’s room while she applied rouge to her lips. For the Salon, she must look a proper lady.

“
Écoute
.” Her brother thumbed through one of his books and read aloud.

I summoned plagues, to stifle myself with sand and blood.

Misfortune was my god. I stretched out in the mud.

I dried myself in the breezes of crime. And I played some fine tricks on madness.

“Are you reading Rimbaud again?” Camille asked.

Paul closed his book. “How did you know?”

“Because the passages are either about hell or they make no sense.”

“He makes perfect sense to me.” Paul licked his thumb and rubbed at a spot on his shoe until it shone.

A soft knock came at the door. “Camille?”

“Come in, Mother.” A tide of sadness swelled in her breast. Mother refused to attend the Salon, lest she be seen amid the “infidels of Paris.” Camille had hoped she might go anyway, perhaps show support for her daughter’s success for a change. At least Papa would be home tomorrow in time to see
Giganti
on display, even if he could not escort her on opening night. Paul and Louise would join him.

Mother stood beside Camille at the mirror. “I . . .” She looked down at her folded hands. “I wanted to wish you luck at the Salon. Even if sculpting is a foolish waste of time . . . you have done well.” A certain vulnerability and a touch of pride shone in her eyes.

“Mother?” Camille’s own eyes widened in shock. She squeezed her mother’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “I will make you proud of me yet.”

Mother attempted a smile. “Don’t let me keep you. You mustn’t be late.” She left the room in a rush, clearly uncomfortable by the display of emotion.

Camille glanced at Paul in disbelief. He shrugged. That was the first time Mother had complimented her artwork. Sure, she had praised her for high marks in letters and history, or an occasional witty comment when the family bantered, but never for her sculpture. Unexpected tears threatened. She blinked several times to keep them at bay.

“You’ve been in front of that mirror for an hour,” he said. “Aren’t you ready yet?”

She launched one of her hats at his face. “You will spend twice the time on your toilette tomorrow.”

“Very funny,” he said, having caught the hat easily.

Camille smoothed the front of her black-and-gold-striped skirt and peered over her shoulder to check her bustle. All appeared in order. Filigree eardrops of shiny black stones dangled from her lobes and an ebony velvet ribbon encircled her neck, the perfect complement to her low neckline. She pulled on one black silk glove, then another. Perhaps Monsieur Rodin would be pleased. Camille frowned in the mirror. She had far more important things to think about tonight.

A tramping of hooves clamored in the street. Paul pushed aside the lace curtain and peered into the street. His face screwed up into a scowl. “Monsieur Rodin awaits.”

Camille glared at him. “He is my tutor and employer, Paul.”

“He steals all of your time. I miss you.”

She smiled. “I miss you, too, but I’ve learned a lot from him. His connections are a big part of why my bust was accepted.”

“Your talent is why your bust was accepted.” He stood. “I fear for your reputation. He is known to be a lady’s man, Camille. You do know that?”

“Of course.” She snapped her powder box closed. “And yet, I haven’t seen him with a woman as long as I have known him.” She noticed his crossed arms. “Do not worry about me.” She leaned over him and mashed her lips against his cheek to blot her rouge. She laughed at the scarlet ring left on his skin. He swatted her hand and fished for his handkerchief in his pocket.

Jessie stepped into the room, still fiddling with her gray pelisse. The jacket blended with her unassuming gown. When she saw Camille’s attire, her hand flew to her hair. “You’re wearing feathers . . . Shall I?”

Camille eyed Jessie’s simple hairpins, bulging with a mass of dark curls. Jessie would not feel comfortable in a more ostentatious hair ornament or a flashy dress. No sense in making her worry all evening about her appearance. Her friend’s intelligent discourse would make up for her wanting beauty.

“Here, wear my brooch.” Camille fastened a sterling oval etched with a blooming rose to the high lace collar of Jessie’s costume. “You look lovely.”

Paul followed them downstairs.

“Good evening.” Rodin exited the carriage so the ladies might sit first.

“Meet my brother, Paul,” Camille said.

Paul extended a hand in greeting, though his features were pinched. “Monsieur Rodin, take care of my sister.”

Camille laughed at Paul’s possessive reaction. “There’s no need to worry, brother. Jessie and I are in good hands.”

Paul nodded tightly and watched them mount the carriage.

Once settled, Camille noted Monsieur Rodin’s elegant suit and top hat, and a red carnation at his lapel. She wondered who had fastened the flower there. The thought made her squirm.

“I see you own clothing that isn’t spattered in plaster,” she said. “Strangely enough, we do as well.” She laughed, her good humor plain. “The flower is a nice touch. Your wife has excellent taste.”

He glanced at her painted lips. “I do not have a wife. And you,
mes filles
, are stunning.” Though he addressed them both, his gaze never left Camille’s.

Her smile widened. He wasn’t married, then.

Jessie cleared her throat. “You must tell me how to behave, monsieur.”

“Admire the art, be gracious, and above all, do not take offense at the criticism. Some opinions you may like, but often you will dislike what is said about your work. Remember those who render judgment do not understand the inspiration behind them or the care with which we shape them.” He clutched the polished head of his cane. “It’s not them we please. It is ourselves.”