Rodin's Lover (26 page)

Rose Beuret’s pale skin blanched whiter still. She knew very well how dedicated Auguste was to Camille. The woman gulped from her wineglass to hide her trembling hands.

Auguste threw Camille a pleading look.

Her gaze shifted to Paul. He hid his frown behind his water glass.

“Join us.” Papa motioned to the place at the table beside Louise, directly across from Auguste.

“For heaven’s sakes, sit down,” Louise said, tossing her hair. “We cannot begin without you.”

After Camille sat between her brother and sister, she said, “Isn’t monsieur’s devotion admirable?” Her tone dripped with spite. “And how lovely to meet you, madame. You are the woman who keeps his house, correct?”

Mother’s mouth fell open. “Do not speak to Madame Rodin that way!”

“I hope you will forgive me,
Madame Rodin
.” Camille emphasized the false title. “I did not realize monsieur was married.”

Rose opened her mouth to retort, when the maid and cook arrived, their arms loaded with platters.

“Would everyone care for cold potage?” Corinne set the tureen on the table. “I’ll serve a vegetable next.”

“Sounds delicious.” Auguste tucked a napkin into his collar. He avoided Camille’s withering stare.

Paul thumped Camille’s leg under the table. She looked down at her soup. No one spoke. Spoons clanged and scraped against porcelain bowls. A happy bird belted a song from its nest in the bushes along the edge of the property.

“Paul,” Papa said, breaking the uneasy silence, “tell Monsieur Rodin about your award.”

“Yes, I hear you’re a talented young man,” Auguste said, thankful for the safe direction of the conversation. “Mademoiselle Claudel sings your praises.”

Camille noticed the falsetto in Auguste’s voice.

Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Camille is my biggest supporter.” He smiled at her. “I’m not sure where I would be without her encouragement.”

“Likewise, brother.” She blew him a kiss.

Rose sneered into her napkin. Camille smiled sweetly at her in response.

Thankfully, the remainder of the meal, Mother and Louise prattled on about the impending wedding. When the last piece of fruit had been finished, Papa waved his hand at the garden. “Would you care for a walk? Or perhaps Louise could play something for us?”

Louise sat taller, clearly pleased by the attention. “I would be honored to play for you, Monsieur and Madame Rodin.”

Rose gave her a genuine smile. “That would be delightful, dear.”

They all stood—all but Camille. She remained in her seat and watched everyone file inside. Her food had not been touched. Anger and disgust filled the cavity of her stomach instead. How could Auguste do this to her? She was nothing but a statue, an accessory in his life, someone to pass his time and to make him feel like a man. A tide of pain rolled through her and flooded her throat. How much she had suffered at his hand. She couldn’t bear it. Auguste had no intention of leaving Rose and clearly did not take his relationship with Camille in earnest.

Hot tears pooled in her eyes. She stumbled through the yard, fleeing the party, and her pain. She lost her footing on lumpy lawn in her haste to get away and tumbled to the ground. The flower tucked in her hair fluttered to her lap and her beautiful violet gown was smeared with dirt.

She must leave him. The wretched voice had been right. Auguste used her, but the thought of never seeing him . . . A forlorn sob racked her body.

“Are you hurt?” Auguste strode toward her.

Camille scrambled to her feet and strode away from him. “Leave me, please. Just go.”

“My darling, wait.” He chased her across the lawn and into the field abutting the Claudel property. Her knees wobbled and she stumbled once more. His strong hand caught her and pulled her into his embrace. “I had no choice. Rose’s name was on the invitation. She
opened it and replied before I had even seen the letter. I tried to tell you in Islette, but we argued and you left. In a panic, I penned a letter and sent it right away to warn you.”

Camille’s eyes grew wide. “I never received it.” And there was only one person who might read her mail and keep it from her: Mother. She knew about them—she must. Tears fell freely, staining her cheeks. Every dream she had of spending their lives together collapsed, every happy memory turned to a dagger, stabbing her insides. The pain. She wanted to crawl into a dark room and disappear.

Auguste fished his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her tears with a tender hand. “
Amour
,” he whispered, “there is only you. I love you. Since the moment I met you there was no one else.”

“If that were true, she would not be here, humiliating me in front of my family.” She sobbed. “Did you see the look she gave me?”

Auguste pulled her into his arms. “She is the mother of my son, a longtime friend. I cannot just throw her into the street. Please understand that. Her presence in my house does not diminish what I feel for you. You have my heart. My soul.” He pressed her hand to his heart. “It will always belong to you.”

Though Camille wanted to slug him, she could not find the strength. Instead she laid her head against his chest and the tears flowed, soaking his linen suit jacket.

“Shhh.” He stroked her hair. “I am here for you, always. Rose will never stand in the way of our love.”

She did not understand him. If she meant so much to him, despite his friendship with Rose, he would want to be with only her. His words rang hollow. Auguste served only himself, while she and Rose were made to suffer.

She wrenched free of his grasp. “I don’t want to be anywhere with you.”

“Camille—”

“Just go!” She shoved him. “Leave me alone!”

“You are upset. You need time to refresh yourself. Enjoy the country, the clean air, the birds. When you are revived, come to me. I will be waiting for you.”

“Your poetry will not sway me. This—whatever this is between us—is finished.”

Fear filled his eyes and his mouth tugged down at the corners.

“Camille?” Mother stalked toward them. “You look a fright! Monsieur, I trust all is well? Your wife asks after you,” she said, tone clipped.

“
Bien sûr
. Madame, thank you for your hospitality.” He looked at Camille one last time, sorrow deepening the lines on his face. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Claudel. I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit in Villeneuve.”

Camille watched him amble toward the house. Once he was out of sight, Mother dropped any semblance of polite speech. “You little whore!” She slapped Camille’s cheek with force. “You’re fornicating with him!”

Camille staggered backward. Her hand flew to the stinging flesh where palm had connected with skin. Her right eye felt as if it would catapult from its socket. She had never been hit so hard, or at all.

“Mother,” she breathed.

“I saw him embracing you!” she hissed. “He has a wife! And now she’s here, dining prettily at the house of her husband’s mistress! How can you live with yourself?”

A grim smile crossed Camille’s face. “They aren’t married, Mother. You might say we are both his whores.”

Mother’s face registered confusion, then shock. “Then you truly are a fool. If he will not choose you when he isn’t encumbered with marriage, when would he?”

Her words stung far more than the slap. Camille turned to the open field once more and ran, skirts flapping about her ankles.

“Come back here this instant!” Mother called. “You need to send the guests off.”

Camille’s chest felt as if her heart had been cut from her body. She flew over the vast carpet of summer grass, under an indifferent blue sky. Mother had hit her! Reflexively her hand flew to her still-warm cheek. But she was right. If Auguste did not choose her now . . . Another sob caught in her throat. She willed her legs to go faster.

The sound of her breathing filled her ears as she ran. The rhythm of her legs and the pounding of her heart lulled her racing thoughts until she calmed. Above her, a raven soared on a current of air.

Camille knew what she must do.

1887–1898

La Vague
The Wave

T
he sun relinquished its fiery hold on the city and the first cool breeze of evening tiptoed through the open studio windows at 113 Rue d’Italie. Camille dipped a sponge into a basin of clear water, wrung it out, and patted her face and neck. She had worked steadily all day on
The Waltz
and it was nearly complete. Her shoulders and back ached, but soon, Monsieur Debussy would come for her. Her composer friend insisted the music at Robert Godet’s salon was sublime inspiration for any artist. She had not been out for weeks and had agreed at the last minute to accompany him.

She wondered how Auguste would feel if he saw her with Debussy. A vision of his pained expression made her stomach clench. She did not regret severing their union, despite the aching hollow in her chest and the yearning for his touch. A watery mist obscured her vision and the room swam. She dashed a hand across her eyes. She could not cry now. She slipped behind the crude partition in the rear of her studio to change into a fresh dress. At least she had gained a new atelier, though its location had proven difficult. Auguste had done anything he could to keep her near him, even renting a space for her just a few doors down from his own, despite their parting. It would not last, but she would use it while she could. After Mother had slapped her, she had moved from the family home into her own apartment, and the new studio, for good. Damn the rumors and her reputation—or what was left of it.

Camille ran a brush through her hair and pinned loose curls in place. She still shared the atelier on Rue Notre Dame des Champs with Jessie, but in mere weeks her friend would depart for England and the atelier would close. As would a chapter in both of their lives.

The hollow in her chest throbbed again when she thought of Jessie leaving. First Giganti, then Auguste, and now Jessie. Paul was all she had left. When she emerged from behind the partition, a shadow caught her eye—the silhouette of a woman—in the window. Someone peered in from the street.

A tremor ran the length of Camille’s body. Who in the devil was that? She rushed first to the window, then to the street, spooking her intruder.

“You there!” she shouted. “Why are you spying on me? I could have you arrested!”

The retreating woman glanced over her shoulder. Though she had dashed away too fast for Camille to make out her features, she would swear it was Rose Beuret.

Footsteps echoed in the staircase outside Auguste’s bedroom door.

“It’s Octave. Let me in.” Mirbeau’s voice came from the corridor.

Rodin pushed up in bed. He had been unable to face the mountain of work awaiting him at the studio without
her
in it—he could not even bring himself to say her name. Rose berated him, then pleaded with him every day to forget
sa féroce amie
. Yet he could not banish the image of her wilting in sorrow in his arms. He had betrayed her, their love. He was a coward.

“I am not receiving visitors.” Rodin left the house only to post letters, then returned to the dimly lit room and relinquished himself to the blessed escape of sleep.

“Open the door this minute or I will break it down,” Octave said firmly.

Rodin heaved a sigh, hoisted himself from bed, and padded to the door. “I am in my chemise.”

“No matter,” Octave said, stepping into the room. He placed his hands on Rodin’s shoulders. “This must end. Come away to my summer home in Normandy. We’ll spend a month there, take in the sea and the salty air. It will do you some good.”

“I don’t know. I have so much to do—”

“Which you aren’t doing even now. You suffer from heartbreak and anxiety. It will pass with time. A little perspective from afar will help.”

Auguste had written to Octave about
her
. There weren’t many he could tell, but both Octave and Mathias had proven to be good friends—unlike Jules, from whom he had still not heard despite the approaching Salon.

“Well?” Octave prodded, stroking his signature mustache. “What do you say?”

Auguste stared into his friend’s face and saw the concern brimming in his eyes. “When do we leave?”

Camille strolled with Jessie through the vast Jardin du Luxembourg in search of a shady spot beneath a tree. They had spent hours in the studio and needed a change of scenery. The late summer haze had crawled from the streets and through their open windows. The odor of urine and rotten garbage mingled with the scent of clay and their own sweat. Camille wanted to rip off her gown and lie in her undergarments, float down the river Seine.

Jessie grunted as she swung a basket at her side, heavy with food and wine. She had offered to provide the picnic this time because of her guilt. She had used the last of Camille’s clay for the third time that month without asking, and she still owed her share of rent on the atelier—not to mention a small fortune for an assortment of supplies. Why Jessie had not asked her parents for money, Camille didn’t understand. The Lipscombs lived on a huge estate and had all the money they needed. Was Camille supposed to feel sympathy for her? Her friend’s life had been easy—her parents adored her and now she had a fiancé.

Camille pushed aside her negative thoughts; she didn’t want to ruin one of the few remaining days she had with her friend. Jessie had forgiven her easily after she’d treated Monsieur Elborne with such disdain, and she owed her friend a bit of generosity in return.

A couple walking their poodle neared them on the gravel path. The dog leapt toward Jessie’s picnic basket to sniff it. After a moment of investigating, he pawed at her skirt.

Jessie laughed. “I’m sorry, little dog, but this isn’t for you.”

“César,
ça suffit!
” The dog’s owner yanked on the leash. He did not appear amused.

“That’s a big name for a little pup,” Jessie said.

“His character is grand, believe me,” the woman said, mopping her forehead with a pale green handkerchief that matched the bodice of her gown.

César barked and then his tongue fell from his mouth, showing his dog smile. Camille fixated on the outline of the dog’s body as it distorted and blended with the gravel path until there were not two objects but one: a ball of gray fur with black pupils against vivid whites. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again. She glanced from one face to the next. César’s owners’ cheekbones and ears, the planes of their faces distorted. She clutched her head.

The gentleman tugged at the leash. “Come, César.”

“Camille?” Jessie’s concerned voice cut through the fog in her head. “We need to get you out of the heat.”

“I just need to sit down,” Camille said, as an arm slipped around her shoulders. She allowed herself to be led to a bench under the shelter of a shade tree.

“Have a drink of water.” Jessie fished a glass bottle from the basket, uncorked it, and poured water into a tin cup.

Camille gulped it down greedily, then stretched out on the bench and closed her eyes. “The Voice has come back and my vision . . . sometimes I cannot see. I don’t know what to do.” She threw her arm over her eyes. “And the poodle? I couldn’t distinguish where he ended and the gravel path began. He was a gray blur with bright devil eyes.”

“What voice do you mean?” Jessie asked, her tone cautious. “You are hearing voices?”

Camille groaned. “Some days. It isn’t frequent, but the other things . . . What’s wrong with me?”

Jessie sat down beside her. “You have been working so hard lately and you are under a lot of pressure. Then there is Rodin,” she added quietly. “Do you miss him? He wrote to me again and asked after you.”

As if a dam had burst, a hot flood rushed down Camille’s cheeks. “And what did you tell him? That I am a nightmare of distress, debts, and demon voices?”

“Perhaps you should consider a holiday. Get away from Paris for a while.”

“And who is to pay for my vacation?” She looked up through a hank of frizzy hair. “I can hardly pay rent. I sold another plaster, but that isn’t enough. Papa has given me so much money already. I can’t ask him for more.”

Jessie watched a pair riding bicycles. The chime of their bells rang merrily in the sunshine. “I owe you money,” she said. “I am sorry; truly I am. My father’s fortune is at risk and they have stopped sending my allowance. Tutoring has been the only way I’ve been able to manage.”

“Hasn’t your father just earned his fortune?” Camille snapped. She didn’t believe the mansion and lavish vacations of which she had partaken only last summer had vanished. “You take my things. You tell your students you’re as good a sculptor as Auguste. We both know that isn’t true. You’re a liar,” she said with vengeance. “How can I believe you anymore, Jessie?”

The bicycle bells chimed. Their vibrating fused into the sharpened point of a saber to stab her brain. Camille groaned. “And you share my secrets with
him
.” She looked about, frantic. “You’re not my friend. You use me. You use Auguste.”

The bells again. Her head rang and a metallic tang flooded her mouth.

“What are you talking about?” Jessie demanded. Her face registered her alarm. “You are unwell, Camille. You aren’t yourself—”

Camille’s head swiveled from left to right as she scanned the pedestrians in the park around them. “What are you scheming now? Auguste writes to you. Are you planning something with him?”

Shock registered on Jessie’s face.

“Get out of my sight!” Camille screamed. “Get your things from my studio and leave. I don’t need someone who betrays me.”

Jessie stood and gathered her basket of things. “You have lost your mind! It is true I have failed at doing the right thing at times, but I have always been your friend.” She turned to go, but stopped suddenly to add, “I am as talented a sculptor as you, and likely as Auguste. It is not a lie to tell my students thus.”

Camille laughed, a hollow, unnatural sound. “Even if that were true—which it is not—your sculpting career is finished the moment you set foot on that ferry back to England, and you know it.”

Jessie’s shoulders drooped. “If you continue to treat people as you do, you will be alone—alone with no one to care for you, and all of the success in the world will mean nothing. Good-bye, Camille. I wish you well.”

“Keep telling yourself you are as skilled as Auguste!” she shouted at Jessie’s retreating back. “You are a liar and a fake, desperate to be something you aren’t.” Camille was suddenly confused, her own words echoing in her ears and ringing somewhere deep within her core. A liar and a fake,
she
would never be as skilled as Auguste.

When Jessie had disappeared from sight, a pang of remorse stole Camille’s breath away. She gripped her sides to hold in the pain. Her friend was gone, and would likely never speak to her again. Why had she treated her that way, regardless of her shortcomings? Had she become like Mother? She curled in on herself, around her leaden despair.