Rodin's Lover (21 page)

A gust of wind sent a spray of saltwater on her face, a dose of cold reality on this vacation from her life. It was time to go home.

Midnight sky consumed the last rays of weary light, and the single flickering lamp became inadequate in the cavernous room. Auguste had scrubbed and scoured three stones, kneaded a rope of clay, and cleaned all of his tools—menial tasks to occupy his hands. Now they itched to mold something, anything, but he couldn’t focus, and he
couldn’t see a damn thing. He dropped his maquette and heaved a sigh. “We’re finished here.”

Giganti relaxed from his twisted pose and stretched. He ran a hand through his tumbled curls and dressed quickly.

Auguste was too old for Camille and he was her teacher. What was he thinking? He had looming deadlines, a show to prepare for—no time for such folly, and yet . . . He crossed the studio and stood beneath the skeleton of his
Gates of Hell
. A tormented male reached for a woman twisting away from him, lust and fear marking her features. He traced the figures with his fingertip.

“
Veux-tu fumer?
” Giganti placed a pinch of tobacco on a square of hemp paper and rolled it into a cylinder.

“No.” Rodin shook his head. He didn’t want to smoke; he didn’t want to eat; he didn’t want to do anything. He kicked a hunk of dried plaster.

“Everything all right?” Giganti asked, dragging on his cigarette.

Auguste grunted and bent to pick up a cloth that had slipped off a nearby figure. “Well enough.”

“You don’t seem yourself, if I may say so. Whatever it is, I hope it passes.”

Auguste didn’t know if it would pass. He’d never been so consumed, outside of work. He didn’t even believe in love, yet he felt as if he were burning alive. He stared at Giganti. The model would be a better match for Camille. He was younger, less encumbered by his work. Hell, he didn’t have a woman at home, waiting for him to return every night.

A tap on the door startled them, a fumble of the latch, and then it opened. Camille entered without a bonnet or overcoat, and her dress was speckled with raindrops.

Auguste’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since his visit to Peterborough and here she was, fresh, vibrant, and sprinkled with fall rain.

“Camille! Are you cold?” Giganti crossed the room and rubbed her arms. “I’m so glad to have you back!”

She pulled away from the model’s touch and turned her eyes on Rodin. “I’ve come to see Auguste.”

C
amille could not wait another minute to see Auguste. She had arrived home from the train station an hour before and raced to the studio. Her heart battered her rib cage.

And now, Auguste did not move a muscle. He seemed uncertain how to approach her. “Mademoiselle Claudel, you came to see me?”

Giganti raised an eyebrow and looked from one to the other. He ducked his head to hide his expression and slipped on his coat. “
Molto bene
. I will be on my way.”

When Giganti had gone, Camille said, “I need to know more about Rose Beuret.”

Auguste’s face fell. “She is the mother of my son and a longtime friend.”

“She lives with you.”

“Yes.”

“And you love her?” Camille asked, voice tremulous.

“In a way. But we have not been intimate for some time. Our relationship has changed into something different over the years.”

Relief flooded her heart. “Monsieur Rodin,” she whispered, voice husky, “fetch your charcoal.” There would be no more running, only surrender. This force between them consumed her will until there was nothing left but him. Only him. She must show him how much he affected her.

Camille unpinned her damp hair and shook it free. Water droplets
rained about her shoulders. She untied the sash at her waist and let it flutter to the ground, then began to unfasten her buttons, one by one.

Auguste’s eyes grew round and he scrambled to his desk.

She laughed at his enthusiasm and kicked off her heels. He still wanted her. A burst of joy erupted in her heart. She climbed onto the pedestal and contorted her body into a pose, her creamy skin a moon in the black cavern of the studio rooms.

Auguste raced back, his face alight and eager to devour her offering. He reached out to touch her.

She laughed again. “Later, my love. Take what I have to give you first.”

He stilled for a moment. “
Mon coeur,
” he whispered.

Charcoal whisked over paper, shaping the small of her back, the peak of her breasts, and her soft abdomen. He finished one page and turned to the next. His cheeks grew ruddy in his excitement.

“Do I make a fitting model?” she asked.

His face turned serious. “There could be no other after you.”

Auguste’s hands moved swiftly, back and forth like a bow on violin strings, the soothing sound of hand on page, the soft scrape of charcoal. The thud of her heart. Camille closed her eyes and drifted. A menagerie of images flowed from one to another, made of smoke and blurred by a warm breeze. The rustle of fabric, a flowing skirt. Two lovers. The image danced on the edge of her consciousness. Soon, she would need her own charcoal.

A callused hand stroked her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open to thick, strong fingers stained red from terra-cotta clay with chunks of burnt orange under the fingernails.

She sat up, took his hand in hers, and kissed each fingertip, the pillow of her lips pressed gently against them. His delicious adoration, his strength, wrapped her in a cocoon, blanketing the last of her doubts.

“I tried to banish you from my heart but cannot.” Camille threaded her hands in his hair. “You have taken hold of me, Auguste.”

“And you have changed me. I am on my knees before you.”

“
Je t’aime,
” she whispered.

He pressed his lips to hers and took her in his arms.

“Come!” Auguste said, as he led Camille through a series of rooms furnished with beautiful antiques, paneling with gold-painted detailing, and plush silk rugs from the Orient. Camille had even removed her shoes and stockings that morning to feel the rugs’ softness between her toes.

“What is all the excitement?” She followed him through the front door and onto the drive. “You spirit me away from the city, but I have work to do,” she teased. She was thrilled Auguste had asked her to vacation with him in a château in Touraine, regardless of the looming submission date for the coming Salon. The very thought of it brought anxiety that settled along the muscles near her spine.

“We’ll only be here a few weeks,” he said, his voice warm and ebullient.

The country agreed with Auguste. She noted his beaming face, the chuckle that came without cause. Sunshine poured over his frame, making his beige coat appear as if dipped in golden honey, and his copper beard, threaded with wisps of silver, shimmered in the light. A cloud of insects buzzed about his head and he waved a hand to dispel them. She caught his hand in hers and kissed his palm.

In a swift motion, he pulled her close, his mouth slanting over hers and taking her breath away. How Camille loved this man. She kissed him hard and then bit his lip. Startled, he pulled back. “What was that for?”

“Sometimes I want to eat you up.” She cackled and nipped the end of his nose.

“Little wench!” He twirled her round and round, her skirts buoyed by the bubble of air beneath them. Camille squealed as her head dizzied and her view blurred.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel interrupted their gaiety. Auguste steadied her on her feet.

A footman who lived on the property emerged from the house. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle, monsieur. Master Gerard instructed me to be at the ready for your ride. Would you like my assistance?” His voice was brittle, as if he might crumble and blow away in the autumn wind.

“Please,” Auguste said.

Camille smirked at the footman’s rigid demeanor, his perfectly
pressed suit jacket. He could use some roughing up, or perhaps a tumble in the hay with a maid.

“Right this way.” The footman showed them to an outbuilding, where he heaved open a sliding metal door.

Camille looked at Auguste with a questioning glance. “What is this ride we are taking?”

He smiled. “I’ve been told it’s a marvel.”

“So it is,” the footman replied, pinching his lips. His eyes raked Camille’s form, his disdain clear.

She gave the footman a pointed look. He clearly had better things to do, but he could at least be polite. Then it occurred to her—he didn’t approve of her relationship with Auguste. He sat in judgment over her sharing a room with a much older man, especially as they were unmarried. She endeavored to hold her sharp tongue. No sense in ruining a perfect afternoon.

The footman yanked the coverlet from the mystery item and a cloud of dust swirled in the air. Camille coughed as the particles clogged her throat and tickled her nose. “What on earth is that thing?” It appeared to be a motorized bicycle.

Auguste squeezed one of the narrow wheels. “It’s the newly invented vehicle you spoke of, powered by steam and straight from Prussia, though they call it the Benz Motorwagen.”

Camille’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you manage this?”

“The owner is a friend of mine,” Auguste said. “He has a connection with the inventor. Gerard is there now, in fact. I told him my lady had marveled over the invention and he insisted we take it for a ride.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Auguste hoisted himself onto the small cushioned seat above two large rear wheels. Behind the seat, a series of cylinders and pulleys were fastened atop a wood box. Near the footrest, a long thin pole with a winding crank jutted upward from the floorboard.

Camille looked on in amazement.

“You turn this dial to steer.” The footman gestured to each part. “And I will crank this wheel. The wheel clicks this dial to begin the process of heating the reservoir of water. As the water heats, it creates compression for the steam.” Excitement crept into the footman’s voice.
He had heard the instructions many times, that was certain, but still found fascination with the machine.

“How do you stop it?” Camille asked.

“With this lever.” He indicated a rod with a black knob at the end.

“Shall we ride, Camille? There is enough space for two.” He patted the seat beside him. “We’ll ride to the big oak that marks the bend in the road.” He pointed to a massive tree dressed in chocolate-colored leaves.

“Let’s hope this thing doesn’t explode.” She gathered her skirt in one hand and allowed the footman to assist her into the seat. She watched him crank the wheel attached to a pulley. After several turns, the small engine awakened with a pop, hiss, and a shallow stream of steam. Auguste cheered and swung his beret around in the air. Camille laughed at his enthusiasm and they took off, bumping over the rutted dirt road.

The vehicle gained speed. “How fast does this thing go?” she asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea!” He shouted over the noise of the steam engine.

They bounced along under the autumn sky, until they reached the tree. Auguste pulled the break and the vehicle came to a stop. “
Incroyable!
” He turned in his seat and waved at the footman, who stood in the drive. The unhappy man returned a curt wave.

Camille slapped Auguste’s knee. “It goes faster than I expected! Can you get it started again? It’s my turn to drive.”

“Are you certain that’s wise?” he asked.

She shoved him playfully. “Don’t play the misogynist with me. Of course I’m certain.”

“Very well, my headstrong girl.” He kissed her cheek and jumped to the ground, the thump of his feet against the dirt road sending a whoosh of dust into the air.

Camille scooted closer to the steering crank and brake rod. She grinned. Paul would just die for the chance to drive this thing. She couldn’t wait to tell him she had.

Auguste turned the wheel and once again the
pish-pish
of steam and the clap of lids opening and closing surrounded them. “Off you go!” he shouted.

Camille screeched when the motorwagen lurched forward. As she
gained speed, rolling countryside streaked by, a painter’s palette of color in the blurred periphery of her vision. Cool wind blasted against her face and washed over her person; a cleansing air, dispelling the anxiety she had carried with her from Paris. If she held out her arms, perhaps she would fly.

After another hundred meters, Camille stopped the car and dismounted. She looked back toward the now-distant château. The footman had moved from his statuesque position at the end of the drive and was now a black ant on the front steps.

Auguste strolled up the lane, hands crossed behind his back, in the midst of fields of tilled wheat. A current of golden light eddied around him. He was the sun—her guide in the wilderness. Camille skipped down the lane toward him, her heart light.

Auguste laughed as she approached. “Amusing, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how much the damned thing cost Gerard, but perhaps one day there will be more of them. Imagine the roads full of motorwagens!”

“That sounds dangerous.” She looped her arms around his neck.

His hands found her hips and rested there. “Anything new is dangerous. Dangerous to the sheltered world most live in.” He grinned down at her. “I have something to ask you.”

Camille’s stomach somersaulted and she looked away, out toward the horizon. Perhaps he was leaving Rose to be with her, only her. She suddenly felt like the raven soaring above the wheat fields, its black wings beating against the cheery blue sky.

Auguste put a thumb under her chin. “I’d like to rent a private space, a studio where we can work together without interruption.
Our
studio.”

She tumbled from her height. He did not want to leave Rose—she was nothing but a lovesick little girl, a student and a distraction to him.

Auguste read her expression and reached for her hand. “What is it?”

She gulped down her disappointment like a bite of overcooked fowl. “The rent of my own atelier is exorbitant and there is only Jessie and I left. I could not contribute to the expenses. I am going to decline the invitation.”

The light in his eyes dimmed. “I would never expect you to share
the expenses. I will afford the bills.” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip.

Camille’s disappointment turned to anger. She pulled free of him and dashed down the hill toward the château. He could find a way to drive the motorwagen back himself. Perhaps the merry footman would help.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“To work!” she shouted, without turning. How glad she was to have brought her sketchbook and clay. She would drown her girlish notions in work.