Rodin's Lover (23 page)

To worsen matters, Giganti had promised to return to work after a midday repose last night, but had never shown.
Shakuntala
was at a standstill. She rubbed her forefinger and thumb together and focused her gaze on Maurice’s hands while he worked. Giganti never went back on his word. Something seemed amiss.

“It should be ready now,” the sculptor said to himself.

What if Giganti didn’t show again today? Camille began to pace, still rubbing her fingers together.
Shakuntala
was her best work to date. Auguste and his critic friend had heaped praise upon it at first sight, even in its unfinished form. This could be
the one
—the one that made the art world stand up and take notice. She just had a feeling about it. Giganti wouldn’t leave her stranded in the middle of a piece, would he? She grunted in frustration, then kicked a half-empty pail of dirty water. The bucket clattered against the floor, and lumps of half-dissolved clay splattered in every direction.

A man building an armature paused in his hammering. Another looked up from a plaster bust. One of the new female students, with ginger curls and heart-shaped lips, Elise Chevalier, glanced in Camille’s direction. Their gazes met. The young woman was wealthy and sculpted as a hobby. She had joined the atelier just to say she worked with Master Rodin.

Camille’s jealousy seethed. Why must Auguste take on admiring female students who did nothing but bat their eyelashes? There were plenty of real artists seeking his instruction. Though things had been wonderful, she had let him in at last and it terrified her. The thought of his eye wandering elsewhere left her cold.

She picked up a pail and tossed it under a worktable. A metallic tang flooded her mouth, the familiar taste that came when—

“What’s gotten into you?” Maurice asked. “You’re making an awful racket and huffing about today.”

“What’s it to you?” she snapped. Tension prickled along her aching shoulders and neck. Paul, Giganti, and now this silly woman—it was all too much. She needed fresh air.

“No need to be nasty,” the sculptor said.

The skin on his face blended, then each hue stood apart in a multicolor palette: peach, pink, beige, the brown and silver of his hair, and a variation of every shade therein. Confusion muddled Camille’s senses. She glanced from one artist to another. Each of their faces shifted from solid structures to nebulous shapes, painted with an array of colors. She shook her head to clear the odd sensation.

You are a thief. You copy Auguste’s work. You are nothing and they know it.

The Voice, the evil one that mocked her—it had come once before, when Auguste had first kissed her. Her head swiveled this way and that in a panic to locate its source. But no one spoke to her. She blinked rapidly to rectify the blurred faces, the carnival of colors—to no avail.

Camille fetched her umbrella from the rack, ripped open the door with trembling hands, and rushed toward home.

Rainwater speckled the windowpane, blurring the silhouette of a doe munching a mouthful of acorns. Auguste had avoided the atelier at the Rue de l’Université the past two weeks—too many people demanded his time and there was too much noise. He huddled instead in his refuge, a stable-turned-studio on the Rue Saint-Jacques. He could not deny the truth—he also hid away from wagging tongues. There would be a national monument commissioned for Victor Hugo, and Jules Dalou was in the running—against him. He must win, if for no other reason than to prove to Jules he was the better artist. His old friend’s constant disparagement made him incensed each time he thought of it.

The doe perked its ears, suddenly alert to an intruder, and dashed into the cover of tangerine and gold leaves, the only line of trees in the small park facing his studio. Auguste’s eyes blurred until he saw a vision of a man holding a woman close while a demon crouched, prepared to drag her through the gates of hell. He sketched furiously in the diminished light, adding to the dozens of drawings he had completed that morning. Camille’s proclamations of love, her open affection and ravenous lovemaking had torn open a seam and a flood of creativity poured from his fingertips.
Dieu
, the woman filled his heart to bursting. He had never thought it possible.

A light knock came at the door before it swung open. Octave Mirbeau entered the stable. He removed his hat and glanced about at the many portraits of the
Burghers
, the torsos without arms, and the busts of several men he recognized. He took in the forgotten bales of hay in one corner. Many tools dangled from hooks along the walls.

“How in God’s name do you work in here?” Mirbeau asked, his wooly dark eyebrows arching with disdain.

“It’s quiet and I have plenty of lamps when I need them.”

“
Ça pue comme merde,
Auguste.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Auguste cracked a smile. “At least it’s horseshit. It could be worse.” He stood and kissed Octave’s cheek in friendly affection. “I’ve selected the pieces for the show next month. One of my assistants will help me install them at Georges Petit’s in a couple of weeks.”

“Fine, fine. But that’s not why I’ve come.” Mirbeau lifted his pin-striped trousers at the knee and stepped sideways to avoid a clump of dirty rags.

Rodin watched his friend with amusement. “I have an extra pair of boots, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary. I will be brief. I wrote to Omer Dewavrin in Calais as you asked. He said he received your letter and intends to respond. I think he fears your reaction.”

“Because I am so fearsome?” Rodin dropped his pencil and braced himself for bad news. He could not proceed on the final rendition of
The
Burghers of Calais
until he had been paid. He simply did not have the funds to buy the supplies. “Omer is a friend. It’s not as if I will berate him, for God’s sake.”

“Another bank collapsed in Calais. There’s no more money for now.”

“So that’s it.” Auguste crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I only requested two thousand francs more. Surely they can find that somewhere. It’s not as if I am asking for a large sum.”

“Where is the money to come from? Since the Union Générale crashed, banks have folded at an alarming rate. Surely you’ve noticed most of Paris is in a depression?” Mirbeau stroked his thick black mustache. “Another textile manufacturer went bankrupt last week. My brother-in-law is out of work and they aren’t sure how they’ll feed the children.”

Rodin rubbed his eyes and forehead. “Of course I have noticed. But they pester me to finish the
Burghers
in time for the town’s centennial and yet they do not supply the funds. How am I to purchase supplies? I’ve spent a fortune of my own money as it is.”

“How close are you to finishing?”

“The second, larger maquette is complete, but I had hoped the life-size model would be ready by next spring.” He let his hands thud against the tabletop. “Now that’s impossible.”

Mirbeau placed his hand on his shoulder. “You will finish in time. For now, you have other commissions to worry about.” A look of consternation crossed his face. “You have heard Dalou is in the running for Hugo’s monument as well? Several ministers asked him to apply.”

He grunted. “One of my oldest friends competes against me. And he is consumed with jealousy. I fear what will transpire between us.”

“Try not to take it to heart. Who wouldn’t wish to preserve the image of one of the greatest men of our time?”

“Jules either avoids me or spits venom in my presence. This damnable business pits us against our own.”

“He will come around,” Octave said. “And if you do not get the commission, you have more than enough to do. How is the
Gates
coming along, and the monument of Vicuña?”

Rodin heaved a lumbering sigh. “Inspiration comes like a thunderclap, but the time . . . There’s never enough time.”

“Perhaps you need a little entertainment. Get away from the constant work.” He smiled and pounded him on the back. “Come to my house this evening. All of our friends, the
Bons Cosaques
, will be there, Monet included.”

Perhaps an evening with his writer and artist friends was what he needed. But he had not seen Camille in two days. “Do you mind if I bring someone?”

“Of course not. Mademoiselle Beuret?”

“Rose would never feel at home in our company. I will bring my student, Mademoiselle Claudel.”

Octave gave Auguste a questioning look. “She’s a talented artist. I have seen her pieces at various Salons. Exceptional for a woman.”

“Exceptional for an artist,” Rodin corrected him.

“She is very beautiful. Are the rumors true?”

Auguste looked toward the window through which he had seen the doe minutes before. A wind gusted against the pane and rattled the eaves of the old edifice. He looked back at his friend’s face. “She is more than my lover. The woman owns me, Octave.”

Mirbeau frowned. “Keep your wits about you. A woman like her could—”

“Devour me, body and soul? Yes, I know. It is too late.”

C
amille sipped her single malt Scotch whiskey, something expensive, no doubt. Only Auguste’s friends would offer liquors in abundance like table wine. And yet, she had almost turned down Auguste’s invitation to attend Monsieur Mirbeau’s soiree tonight. She still could not shake the vision of Elise Chevalier standing so near him, squeezing her crossed arms together to boost her décolletage. Auguste had smiled and seemed flattered by her sycophantic adoration.

She took a long drink from her glass. Elise had been the third female student in the past month to join his atelier. The place was now crawling with novices, and they were mostly women. Auguste didn’t seem to know how to turn anyone away. She took another sip. Least of all Rose. She flipped open her fan and stirred a breeze around her face. She mustn’t get caught up in that nonsense now; she needed to behave herself. Both Monsieur Mirbeau and Monsieur Geffroy, important critics and possible allies, circulated through the crowd. To lose her temper in front of the most famous art critics in Paris would be suicide.

She threaded through the guests and walked to the far wall to study the piece on the fireplace mantel. Auguste’s
Crouching Woman
had been a gift to his friend. She continued her walk along the periphery of the room, surveying the collection of paintings purchased at Salons or given as gifts—one of Renoir’s, two of Monet’s. Monsieur Mirbeau had excellent taste. Perhaps he would purchase one of hers one day.

A hand tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “I see you enjoy Scotch, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Mirbeau said. “It isn’t a common choice for ladies, but I am told you are bold.”

She swirled her aperitif in its glass. “Indeed.”

The man had a full black mustache that swooped outward like a pair of wings, and thick eyebrows, but his eyes twinkled.

“I am so pleased you could join us this evening,” he said.

“How could I resist seeing you again, monsieur?” They had met on one other occasion, at a Salon, and she had liked him instantly. “You possess quite the eye for fine art.”

Monsieur Mirbeau warmed to her direct yet lighthearted demeanor. “I am not accustomed to compliments from such a beautiful woman.”

Camille unleashed the full power of her smile.

He offered her his arm and took her on a turn through the room. “Congratulations on your showing in London. You’re a rising star, mademoiselle. As much as a woman may rise in the art world.”

She would have bristled at his words had she not caught sight of Auguste talking with one of the few women in attendance. A lady in lush pink satin, much older than she, spoke with such animation she appeared almost comical. As she waved her hands about, her diamonds sparkled in the candlelight.

Camille scowled. At least she had dressed for the occasion as well; she was certain she had never looked better. Her blue gown accentuated her eyes, and a flowered headpiece and silk gloves completed her costume, a gown Rodin had yet to see her in. She could not be dowdy in comparison to the high society she had been certain would attend, and she was correct. Now if only that woman would leave him alone.

Auguste met her eye that instant and excused himself. When he reached her side, he kissed her cheek in reassurance. “Madame Courbet asked if she might view your work. I invited her to the studio.” He had read her thoughts. “Her husband is on the fine arts board so she might influence him to commission a piece.”

“Wonderful,” Camille said, her mood brightening once more. Suddenly she wanted time alone with the man she adored. Her doubts were for naught. “Monsieur Mirbeau, if you will excuse us? I have something I need to share in confidence with my tutor.”

Mirbeau decanted a large Scotch from a crystal pitcher. “I will catch up with you both a bit later.”

Camille led Auguste through the study and onto a narrow balcony overlooking the city. A brisk breeze rushed around them and they huddled together. They peered down at the cityscape, a black sea dotted with orbs of effervescent light, glittering on the cool waters in the fountain square, flickering in the smattering of streetlamps, and oozing from the buzzing electric lights that had cropped up in clusters throughout the city. How vivid the light appeared, a menagerie of gold and silver, pulsing with an aura all its own.

Camille cocked her head to the side, contemplating the pulsing light. The sensation came more frequently now, and she hadn’t the slightest idea why. Goose pimples covered her arms. Should she have her vision examined?

“I have good news for you,” Auguste said. “Mathias Morhardt has agreed to review several of your pieces. He believes in your talent.”

She smiled, unable to hold back her joy. “Will I be able to meet him?”

He nodded. “He is a friend of mine, and he will give your work a proper critique. We must play the system in whatever way we can.”

She paid him with an ardent kiss.

He crushed her against him. “I’ve been drinking in the sight of you all evening.” He kissed her softly, then worked his way down her neck. Her breath came in short spasms as his strong hands played over the curves of her form.

“Come away with me,” he said.

“Where?” she asked, breathless.

“Next week. To the Château de l’Islette in Touraine. We can work there, soak in our inspiration and the beauty of the countryside.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “Be naked at midday and take our tea in a chemise if we choose.”

“You always wax poetic,
mon amour
.” She kissed him softly, a gift for his beautiful words. “But what will I tell Papa?”

“That you’re running away with the love of your life.” He slipped his hand inside the front of her dress and cradled one of her breasts. He rubbed his thumb over her nipple.

“Auguste,” she gasped. Her head fell back in pleasure while he stroked her softly. “Not here,” she managed to say at last.

“We’ll work, too.” He kissed her again and straightened the front of her gown. “Bring what portraits we can.”

“I will come,” she said.

Auguste smiled and dipped his head toward her chest again. “
Dieu
, you are beautiful.”

She pulled his face up to meet hers. “I will only go if you do something for me.”

“Anything.” His tone sobered.

“I want them to go.”

“Who?” Another whisk of night air ruffled his beard and curling hair.

“All of them. The overeager students with no talent. The women who peer at you as if they share a secret with you. I can’t stomach it.”

He held her face in his hands. “You do not understand the extent of my affection. I don’t eat or sleep at night if I don’t see you.” He caressed her thick bottom lip. “You hold my heart hostage. There are no other women but you.”

His words always melted her defenses, but not this time. She needed his word that he would see only her. “I want you to agree,” she said firmly. “It’s bad enough you keep that . . . woman in your house.”

He flinched at the reference to Rose. “You want me to turn away students?”

“They can find a new teacher. You’re a busy man. And they don’t need you. Not the way I do.”

“Very well.” He nodded.

Camille burrowed into his arms.

A shadowy figure tiptoed into the salon, taking care not to slam into the footstool or step on the squeaky floorboard between salon and front hall. A pale hand reached out to stroke the costly silk tapestry on the far wall. Only one, other than Camille, would steal through the dark in the middle of night.

Camille remained still as death, not daring to alert the intruder to her position on the settee. In truth, she hadn’t the energy to move anyway. The merriment of
Noël
, laughing guests, the clinking of fork against porcelain plate, the swirl of colored taffeta and silk gowns and
Mother’s dull guests—it had all been too much. Her head still throbbed with stimulation hours later. To sit alone in a dark room seemed to be the only thing that helped.

A thump of bone against wood broke the silence.

“Ouch!” Paul said. He lit one of the lamps. “Oh! What are you doing here?”

Camille shifted her position to look at him. He sported his finest suit coat and tie, and a rosiness colored his cheeks. A heavy volume slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a thunk. Shiny gold letters glinted in the lamplight:
HOLY
BIBLE
.

“Where have you been at this hour?” Camille asked, eyeing him warily. “Reading your Bible?”

“I’ve just come from midnight mass.”

She pushed herself into a sitting position. “What were you doing there?”

He sat on the edge of a chaise across from her. “Something has happened. I feel . . . changed. As if God spoke to me through the choir and organ. I felt my soul vibrating in my chest. The beautiful music.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “He is real. It’s all real. The angels, the spirits, God. I felt him as real as I feel your leg next to mine.” He touched her knee for emphasis.

Camille stared at him in shock. After a moment, she threw back her head and laughed, deeply from her spine and belly, until tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her hand.

Paul drew away from her and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you laughing at? That I have found faith? I am saved. Pulled from the jaws of damnation and human suffering. I will worship him and be glad.”

She snorted. “Your God will not save you from suffering. Quite the opposite. Believing he will save you will only cause you more suffering.”

“You are wrong, sister. On this night, I can feel his truth within.” He stood and began to pace, his long arms swinging at his sides. “I’ve been blind to it.” He stopped. “Don’t you see? This gives meaning to all of this.” He waved his hands in the air.

“Tell your God to rescue me from this fickle business. A female artist is damned before she begins.” She slumped against the cushion once more.

He sat beside her and embraced her. “You will finish
Shakuntala
and they will love you.” He pulled loose from her heavy limbs and looked into her eyes. “I know you have worried over your last reviews. But they will see your talents. You must have faith.”

“I will find a way,” she said, her determination renewed.

“That’s the spirit. Open your heart and God will lead you as he has led me.” The glow of the lamp, or perhaps it was the burn of faith, reflected in Paul’s eyes. She wished she could believe his earnestness, or better yet, believe in his God.

He continued, “There are others who will help you. You must know that.”

She pushed out a weary sigh. “The only thing I
know
is that I must succeed on my own.”

Camille pressed the surface of
Shakuntala
with firm fingers to assess its level of moisture. Without properly moistened rags the clay would become too brittle to revive. She checked the clock on her desk. Exhausted, she put the teakettle on to boil and dropped into a chair. She pulled a cigarette from the tin on the table and lit its cylindrical end.

Giganti had left for a meal several hours earlier and promised to work again afterward—the third time of such instances from which he had never returned. She puffed on her cigarette and exhaled a filmy stream of smoke. She could no longer put
Shakuntala
aside. She was nearing a crucial point with the piece and she needed Giganti to be available daily. She would have to confront him, like it or not.