Rodin's Lover (27 page)

Though Auguste had spent the fall seeing Camille’s face in every block of marble, her supple form posed upon a platform smiling for only him, his spirits revived. A letter had come, awarding him the commission to create Hugo for the Panthéon. He had rejoiced at the news, and found solace in poring over his sketches once more. He closed the ledger and returned it to his desk drawer. He did not need more work with his
Burghers
yet to be finished, and then there were the
Gates
and several private pieces, but working on Hugo gave him a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Truman Bartlett, artist and critic, poked his head into Auguste’s office.

“Come in.” Rodin slid a silver-plated letter opener under the flap of an envelope sent from the Société des Artistes Français. He looked up as Truman entered.

“Are you ready to dine?” Truman removed his hat.

“
Oui
, in one moment.” Rodin skimmed the letter. “I cannot believe it.” His eyes bulged and he reread it for good measure. “I’ve been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. The bastards have finally accepted I’m here to stay.” He sat back in his chair. As the news soaked in, a giddiness he had not felt in months warmed his blood. He slammed his fist on the tabletop. “I’ve done it, Truman! I’ve really done it. If only my father and sister were alive to see it.”

Truman extended his hand. “Congratulations are in order. And a toast.”

Auguste stood and shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you, my friend.” A hearty laugh escaped his lips and he ran his hands over his hair. Rodin stood motionless for several moments while he basked in his newfound happiness. “I can’t believe it. This day has finally arrived.”

A cloud darkened his sudden good humor. There had been scandals that involved artists paying for the award and, consequently, much gossip circulating. It belittled the honor and insulted those still hoping to attain it. But Auguste had not paid for it and damn those who thought he had. He had never cared for what others thought of him anyway. Why would he begin now?

He slipped into his overcoat. “What do you think of the scandal?”

“No one will believe you paid to win, if that’s what you mean,” Truman said. “You’re one of the most talented and well-known sculptors in Paris these days, probably in all of Europe. It shouldn’t have taken them so long to award the ribbon to you in the first place.” He shrugged. “But you can always refuse to accept it if you’re truly concerned with the rumors. Degas, Courbet, Daumier all denied the ribbon, though I think it foolish. It proves nothing, but making them look like stubborn old men.”

Auguste puffed out a breath. “Yes, I know. Antibourgeois, anti–Napoleonic Empire sentiment and all that. Never mind the many talentless hacks who have toed the line for the
école
all these years. But frankly, I have bills to pay so I’m happy to accept a commission from anyone, bourgeois or not. Rent for my ateliers, all of the supplies.” He rubbed his eyes. “Do you think they will snub me?”

“Who? Your friends?”

“The critics, my friends. Geffroy, Mirbeau, Monet. Dalou, especially. They scoff at it like it’s a label of mediocrity.”

Truman grasped his shoulder. “It is an honor. Be proud and stand behind it. Very few men can boast they have won such a prestigious award.”

Auguste’s friend had toiled as an artist and as a critic. He knew well the prestige associated with a national award. Still, the scandal worried him. Would his friends disapprove?

“Take time to think about it,” Truman said. “For now, let’s eat!”

Auguste nodded, though perhaps he would skip right to the drink.

A month later, Auguste looked over the adorned heads of the crowd. His cravat strangled him, or perhaps his unease came from all those eyes upon him. He touched his precious Légion d’Honneur, pinned at his lapel, and now wove through the crowd to his place at the table. A ball of anxiety, he had not eaten all day, but now the aroma of meat wafting from the belly of the building sent his stomach to grumbling. If only Camille had accompanied him. God, he wanted to share this moment with her, to fill her full of fine food and parade her across the dance floor in an elegant peacock blue gown, the shade of her lovely eyes. How she would laugh at the bureaucrats stuffed in their tailored suits and the women plucked, preened, and pasted with false smiles. They would exchange secret smiles, knowing looks. But he had not heard from her in many months.

Auguste sat and tucked his serviette into his collar. A beautiful woman to his right turned a flirtatious smile on him. “
Félicitations
, Monsieur Rodin.” She fluttered her painted eyes and tipped her head at a coquettish angle.

He had seen her at another event. Madame Barder, queen bee in her circle of wealthy lady friends and their self-made husbands. Her gold and pink taffeta gown set off the rosy blush accenting her cheekbones and strong jawline. A long, creamy neck and cascade of blond hair threaded with silver gave her a regal look. If he were to create her portrait, her complexion would demand to be carved in the most delicate alabaster.

“
Merci
—Madame Barder, is it?” he asked.

“
C’est moi,
” she replied. “I would love to see your work, Monsieur. Perhaps a visit to the Dépôt des Marbres is in order. To be one of your subjects would be”—she smiled—“titillating.” She leaned forward so he might peer down the front of her dress.

Despite her beauty and apparent willingness, a tumble in bed with a stranger couldn’t be further from Auguste’s mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at her husband across the table. The woman possessed bravado, though not the kind he admired. He was thankful for
the rumble of laughter and voices that drowned out her words. He must be cautious, lest Monsieur Barder think him a rogue. Rodin had just been accepted into this circle and didn’t want to be pushed out once more—especially over a woman he did not want.

“One of my assistants would be happy to escort you through my studio,” he replied.

The maître d’hôtel, dressed in black-and-white livery, rushed from the kitchen leading a flurry of his staff. They carried soup tureens filled to the brim with creamed winter vegetable soup and baskets of fresh bread—the first course of the evening. Auguste could smell it from his place at the table.

Madame Barder changed her tactic. “Aren’t you buzzing with happiness? To be recognized as an artist of national merit is such an honor.” She smiled and a twinkle lit her gray eyes. “An honor well deserved.”

“Thank you, and yes, I am very honored.” He hoped the award meant his legacy would be ensured. An indescribable sentiment bloomed in his chest at the thought. Pride? Elation?

Gratitude.

His works would not be forgotten or degraded—perhaps he would even make history. He felt his imprint on the art world had meant something, but that did not mean his contemporaries felt the same way. His reviews over the years had proven that.

“Has the controversy affected you?” She touched the back of his hand lightly. “I know you would never purchase your award. You are too upstanding for such a thing.”

Auguste nodded and drank from his water glass.

“I’m assuming you have seen Octave Mirbeau’s response to your acceptance in the journal?” she continued.

He stared at her in surprise. The woman had not only propositioned him in front of her husband, but she was a gossip. Yet he knew he must tread carefully.

“I’ve read the article
Le Chemin de la Croix
, yes,” he said. “Monsieur Mirbeau wishes me well, though he is unhappy I accepted the award.” Auguste had to admit the article had stung, but he knew Octave had his best interests at heart. Truly, his friend lashed out at the institution and not at him.

“I’m certain he wishes you well. Mirbeau may as well have called you a genius in that article, but he did not hesitate to express his thoughts,
publicly
. That must have been quite offensive.”

Auguste chewed a mouthful of bread. He had known madame for mere minutes and she expected him to pour out his heart. He wished he could change his seat at the table.

She raised her preened eyebrows expectantly.

He attempted to keep his irritation in check. “I assure you I am quite happy with the honor and that all is well.”

“Take heart, monsieur. Scandals bring recognition and that can only mean good things for your art.”

“I am not one for scandal, madame. It insults my integrity.”

“Oh, come now. A secret or dash of impropriety adds a sense of mystery to an artist. Not that you need a single thing, monsieur. You’re positively alluring as you are. Artists are so intriguing.” Madame Barder dabbed at her mouth with a serviette, erasing the faded rouge from her lips. “Why don’t I come to your studio next week? I might find a portrait or two to buy, or at the very least recommend to friends.”

Rodin saw through her ruse. She wished to buy him, to keep him at her heel as she did her friends. He could see it in her glittery brooch and diamond earrings, in the expensive adornments her lady friends wore, and worst of all in her flirtatious manner. He would not sell himself to her—he did not need money that desperately.

But Camille did.

The staff returned to cart away their empty bowls and replace them with plates of whitefish dressed with crème fraîche and a chiffonade of herbs.

“This smells divine, but I must save my appetite for the duck course. A woman should look after her figure.” She sipped from her wineglass instead. “So what do you say?”

“I know the perfect piece for you,” Auguste replied. “It possesses
la tendresse de l’amour
,
forgiveness, adoration, and is crafted by an expert hand, but it is not one of mine. It’s called
Shakuntala
,
by a Mademoiselle Camille Claudel. It’s brilliant. I assure you, you will not be disappointed.”

“The prizewinner at Salon last year?”

“That’s the one.”

“I would like to see it again.”

“Morhardt, Mirbeau, and Geffroy sing her praises. Her work has become quite popular.” A bit of a stretch, but he must help Camille in any way he could. If he struggled against the blasted
école
and the expectations of a fickle society a thousand times, she struggled ten thousand. His chest tightened at the thought of his ferocious one.

Yet she wasn’t his at all.

“Monsieur?” Madame Barder covered his hand with hers. “Are you all right?”

Auguste removed his hand from the table and placed it in his lap. “I am well, thank you.”

God, he missed Camille. The reprieve of happiness dissipated as melancholy clutched him once more.

A hand broke loose and fell to the floor with a crash. Camille walked to where the appendage lay, kicked at the severed fingers, and crunched the terra-cotta palm beneath her boot. She hated this piece anyway. It had done nothing but give her trouble. She had wrestled with all of her works since her split with Auguste. She could think of nothing but him. Had he moved on? Forgotten their love and fawned over another young student? Those stupid women who flocked to him didn’t understand him. They did not know his heart. Rage surged through her veins. With a violent shove, she pushed the broken statue over. She stomped on the piece, a tide of anguish, fear, and the sting of rejection pouring from her. The release of her hopes and disappointments trickled down her spine and into the soles of her boots. She smashed until only a rusty powder and shards of dried clay remained.

Out of breath, she flopped down in a chair. She needed to get hold of her emotions. Auguste would move on and so would she, eventually. She glanced at a statuette of a young girl in a sheath. It nestled beside her bust of a slave. Both pieces had evoked such excitement in Auguste, she had reveled in his praise for days. How proud she had been! Now they sat, alive, with no one to see them.

Still agitated, she rustled through a stack of envelopes on the table. One was a bill from her landlord; the other showed an address from
Aisne, the
département
in northern France where she was born. Curious, since she knew no one in Aisne. She snatched a chisel from her worktable and slit the envelope open.