Rodin's Lover (17 page)

A
uguste berated himself for pursuing Camille. He should have waited until Monday at the atelier to speak with her about the
Burghers
, but he wasn’t certain she would be there. He hadn’t seen her in the three weeks since he had returned from Calais. Such an idiot he was—she had been out all evening with Giganti. A twinge of pain twisted in his stomach. The two of them grew closer as she distanced herself from him. He might wish for her comforting words about the degrading article, but she did not need his comfort for anything—or him. Damn fool.

Swallowing his pride, Auguste walked toward them. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I wanted to discuss a few things with Mademoiselle Claudel, but I should have waited until next week. . . . I’ve been so consumed with this project. You understand that more than most, mademoiselle. But I can see you are occupied. I will go.” He clapped his mouth closed, silently scolding himself once more for rambling.

Paul moaned and leaned his head atop Camille’s.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “Is he hurt? Do you need assistance?”

“I think we can manage, but can you wait for a moment?” Mademoiselle Claudel said. “Let me just bring Paul inside.” She and Giganti dragged her brother into the apartment building and up the stairs.

Auguste clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the moon. Stars speckled the sky like flecks of quartz in a slab of black
granite. He wanted to know her thoughts on his recent version of the
Burghers
, and about the article in the
Patriote
, the Calais newspaper. He had written a rebuttal, point by point, to the offending review. As he had hoped, his supporters rallied to his aid quickly and the commission of the
Burghers
was his. Soon, he would receive the first advance payment. Yet, he still wished for her opinion on his piece. If that many had opposed his design, perhaps she could see improvements that he could not.

Auguste kicked a pebble in the street. He could not lie to himself. He needed to see her, beyond the piece, to persuade her not to run from him. He could behave himself—he wanted her near, even if he could not have her.

An ache throbbed inside him. God, how he wanted her.

The door swept open and Camille walked toward him. Tendrils of hair blew softly across her face and neck, and her gown’s low neckline hugged the gentle slope of her breasts. The bare skin of her shoulders glowed pearly in the moonlight.

Giganti was on her heel. Rodin swallowed his desire.

“Monsieur Rodin,
bonsoir
,” Giganti said.

“Giganti.” Auguste tipped his hat.

The model turned to Camille and winked. “And goodnight to you,
mon amie
.”

Rodin did not miss the exchange. They had their own secret, perhaps even at his expense.
Putain
, he swore under his breath. He wanted to flee and bury himself in his sketches. He looked down at his thick hands, swollen from the exertion of his day’s work. Camille clearly wanted nothing to do with him. If only he could banish her from his mind.

For a moment, Camille watched Giganti walk briskly away, before turning to him with questioning eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, “for agreeing to see me. I wanted to show you my new design of the
Burghers
, and—”

“Shall we go to your studio?” she asked. Something smoldered in her curved mouth and dark gaze.

He dared not hope. She had made it clear he should not cross the boundary between them. Yet his pulse accelerated.

“It’s rather late,” he said. “Are you certain?”

“Quite.” Her smile widened.

They rode the distance by hackney cab in silence. Auguste clenched his fists as tension sparked between them in the dark. He must control himself, or he would drive her away.

When they reached the atelier, he unlocked the door and then lit several lanterns. “I have changed the structure,” he began, “to emphasize the burghers’ pain and their pride.” He removed the sculpture’s cloth covering.

Camille examined the maquette, now a midsize version of what the final piece would be. Auguste watched her expression for a sign.

A lock of hair sprang from a pin and floated down her back. His fingers ached to remove the remaining pins, fill his hands with her hair, and run his lips over the sensitive skin on her neck.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Each face and form tells a story. Their anguish is exquisite.”

As was his own. Auguste crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands from reaching for her. “This is precisely what I told Monsieur Dewavrin in Calais, but the ministers disagree. They find the anguish despicable.”

She ran her finger along the base of the figure. “It’s about as far from despicable as can be.” She locked him in her gaze. “It pulses with life and tormented beauty.”

Auguste nodded, his pulse quickening once more.

“They do not understand you. Not as I do.” Camille moved closer, never removing her eyes from the maquette, until her scent of amber enveloped him.

“That is true.” His voice came deep, unsettled.

The brass clock on the desktop dinged on the other side of his office door. One o’clock, the dead of night.

Camille looked up once more and her blue eyes darkened. She stepped closer.

In a swift instant, he gathered her in his arms. She surrendered her restraint and crushed herself against him. He held her tighter as if she might slip away. He must possess her. She was
his
, this wild, impassioned creature. He would make her his.

Camille wrenched from him suddenly.

“Oh,
mon amour
.” A plea, and a confession.

Her eyes softened and she wrapped her arms about his middle, laying her face against his heart. It skipped in his chest. Could she hear it call for her?

“Mademoiselle—” he began.

“Camille,” she said, her voice feather soft.

“Camille,” he sighed. “I—”

“Shh.” She put her finger to his lips and began to unfasten the buttons of his jacket, one by one. Next, his vest.

Auguste traced a shaking finger over the supple skin of her breasts, the roundness of her shoulders. This time, it was she who moaned, the only invitation he needed. He released her from the clothing that bound her. He would savor this delicacy of a woman, her stark contrasts of cold and heat, of light and dark, her sudden rage and melodious laugh. He would worship at her altar as Mother Nature intended, as she deserved. He would fill her.

In moments, she stood naked. Her porcelain skin glowed like marble in moonlight.

“My darling, beautiful Camille.”

She took his hand and kissed it softly, then guided it to her breast.

With his hands he memorized the curves of her body, her silky skin, the bulge of muscle or bone, the sweep of hair.

She writhed under his touch. “Auguste, please,” Camille sighed. “I can’t bear it.”

The sound of his name on her lips set his blood to boiling. She belonged to him. At last he pushed himself inside her. She gasped. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered, then brushed his lips over her cheekbone and temple. He knew he must be gentle.

“Do it again,” she said, voice thick with longing, and clasped her arms around his neck.

They made love and lay entwined together, the hours dissolving too quickly.

After a spell of hazy contentment, Auguste said, “How long I have dreamed of you. We have found each other, at last.”

“And what are we to do now?” she whispered.

“Create,
mon amour
, together. Stun the world with our art.”

“Together.” Her lips stretched into a smile, her laughing eyes pools of agate.

He kissed her deeply, until emotion welled from the pit of his being and filled every part of him—intoxication of the most dangerous kind. She curled next to him and he wrapped around her, relishing her warmth.

When first light peeked eagerly through the windows, Camille stood and dressed. He watched her, took in the planes of her body, her sinuous movement.

Auguste sat up with a start. A lover, a kiss. His mind whirred despite his fatigue and his hands itched to draw her portrait.

Camille turned to him, a faint smile hidden in the apples of her cheeks, then slipped from the room without a word.

Camille hunched over a pile of sketches while Jessie swept loose chips of plaster, clay, and sawdust into a pile. The sky had gone black and a night breeze stirred from the street and streamed through the open window. She could not stop thinking of Auguste—his lips, his skin on hers. She sighed and pushed aside another drawing of
Shakuntala
. She had the figure’s stance wrong. The woman should rest her head on her lover in quiet surrender and forgiveness.

A flash of Auguste’s face hovering above hers, his ecstasy, filled her with longing. She had made love to him twice more, each time leaving him behind, reaching for her. She offered her body to him for her own needs, not to be his mistress or his pawn. He kept a woman at home for that, or so she told herself.

The first inkling of guilt swirled in her stomach. But they were not married and Auguste had yet to mention Rose Beuret. She could not be so important.

The soft scratching of straw against wood floor and the sway of Jessie’s skirt entranced her. Soon Camille’s focus blurred and she heard his voice in her ear.
Mon amour
, the beautiful phrases he whispered to her, the secrets that were all theirs.

“What are you thinking about?” Jessie asked. She bent to scoop debris into a rusty dustpan.

Camille’s reverie rippled and faded. “
Rien de tout.
”

“It isn’t ‘nothing.’ You have had that look of enchantment about you for two weeks at least. It is him, isn’t it?”

One of two lanterns guttered and went out. Smoke curled through the top of the glass bulb toward the ceiling.

“Rats.” Camille carried one of the remaining lanterns to her desk. “I’ve got at least another hour to do and we need more gas.”

“You cannot be serious.” Jessie planted one hand on her hip. “You’ve been working for fifteen hours.”

Camille studied Jessie’s face. Her thick curls sagged, her mouth turned down at the corners. Jessie needed sleep, possibly a vacation. Her last three pieces had been rejected by the Salon and now her disenchantment colored her usual bright humor a dull shade of gray.

“I need to get this sketch right and I’m not going to bed until I do.”

Jessie recommenced her sweeping. “What were you thinking just now? Do not tell me it is
Shakuntala
.”

“Care for a glass?” Camille changed the subject. “I could use a stiff beverage before finishing here.”

They dressed and, huddling together, walked swiftly to their destination.

“I have something to tell you,” Camille said. “You won’t like it.”

Jessie peered at her in the dark. “It
is
Monsieur Rodin.”

Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve—”

“Do not tell me,” Jessie said quickly. “I don’t want to know.”

Camille frowned. A rush of anger swept through her. She cared deeply for Jessie, but she needn’t be judged by her. Her friend still possessed such prudish values at heart, despite her wish to be viewed as daring. It irked her at times.

“He takes advantage of you.” Jessie’s tone belied her concern. “He has everything. What will you do when he finishes with you and tosses you aside? You will not be able to benefit from his connections or his instruction. He will leave you with nothing.”

Camille’s head began to buzz. “
I
take advantage of
him
. Have you ever thought of that?”

Jessie pulled back, face incredulous. “Really, Camille. That’s absurd.”

She stopped in the middle of the cobbled boulevard, hands on her hips. “And why is that?” Rage clogged her throat.

“I’ve witnessed your moony expression these last weeks. Either you are oblivious to your own feelings or you lie to yourself. This whole thing is a terrible idea and it’s just wrong. Your parents would be furious.”

“My parents?” Camille barked an angry laugh. “I live by my own rules and no one else’s. I always have. You are jealous of my success.”