Rodin's Lover (31 page)

A smile played on her lips. “I wonder which part I will like best.”

“Rodolphe Salis is hilarious,” Auguste said. “You will appreciate his humor.”

“The host?”

“And owner, yes.” He held the door open for her.

A piano and platform sat opposite the entrance, flanked by dozens of tables. Paintings and gilded mirrors covered the walls, and statuettes of cats poised to leap from their sconces decorated every corner of the room. Patrons in glittering evening gowns or silk laughed, sipped their alcohol-laden beverages, and cheered for the chansonnier, who concluded the final note of a bawdy tune.

Camille peered through the cloud of cigarette smoke in search of an empty table.

“On the second floor there’s a shadow theater. Mostly artists and writers loiter there.” Auguste motioned to the staircase.

The mention of writers brought Paul to mind, and her promise. “I need to ask you something.”

“Here?” He frowned.

“Now, or I will forget after a few drinks. It’s about my brother.”

Auguste grunted. “Your brother who despises me.”

“He wants what is best for me,” she shouted over her shoulder as they wound through the room. With each step, she peeled her shoes from the sticky floor. By the staircase, she paused. “He has applied to be a foreign diplomat, but he needs a reference from someone well connected. That someone could be you—if you are willing, that is.”

“I can’t imagine it will do him much good, but I’ll send a recommendation. For you, not for him.”

She smiled, relieved to have that task out of the way. Despite the men’s mutual dislike of one another, they both loved her, and that still meant something.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Auguste asked.

“Let’s.” Camille lifted two glasses of brown liquid from a server’s tray and started up the stairs.

“You had better pay for that, lady,” the man said through a thick black mustache.

Camille eyed his sweat-stained shirt and damp hair, then sipped from one of the glasses without bothering to retrieve her coins. Surely he would offer a lady a drink?

Embarrassment crossed Auguste’s face. He retrieved a franc from his pocket and laid it on the man’s tray. The man did not thank him for the generous gratuity, but continued to snake through the crowd, balancing the nearly full tray over the heads of seated patrons.

“You do love to tease them, don’t you?” Auguste said.

Camille placed a wet kiss on his cheek, leaving an imprint of her rouged lips on his skin. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and glanced around the room.

She noticed his unease. “I can’t mark you as mine?” Though her tone was light, her mood shifted. Earlier, Auguste had wanted to show
everyone their love; now he appeared . . . embarrassed. Or perhaps he was hiding something. Another lady friend? A heaviness lodged in her gut.

“Isn’t it obvious I belong to you?” he asked.

He claimed to be hers, yet he still slept in another woman’s house. Camille chewed the inside of her cheek to hold back her words.

“This way, darling.” He led her up the staircase.

They slid into the few remaining empty seats.

“Monsieur Rodin!” a gentleman said. He had a pointed beard that looked like a goat’s and melancholy eyes. Camille knew that face—she’d seen the famous gentleman once before at a salon, though they had not met. Émile Zola, journalist and author, president of the Société des Gens de Lettres.

“Monsieur Zola!” Auguste shook the writer’s hand briskly. “Do you frequent
Le Chat Noir
?”

“I wouldn’t say I frequent the place, no. I visit occasionally.”

Auguste motioned to Camille. “May I present Mademoiselle Claudel? She is a student—”

“Yes, I know who she is,” Zola said, tipping his head in her direction. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.”

She frowned, confused by his statement. Had Zola seen her at the salon that evening when too much absinthe had been poured? He couldn’t have. They had been in the same room only once the entire night and were never introduced.

“Do we know each other, monsieur?” she asked.

“We have not met, no.” Zola’s eyes gleamed with an unknown emotion. Condescension? Perhaps he had heard rumors of her liaison with Auguste and regarded her as a young plaything—not the respected artist she should be known as. The metallic tang on her tongue grew stronger, but she managed a tight smile.

“How is the monument coming along, Auguste?” Zola stroked the tip of his beard. “My anticipation to see your
Balzac
grows every day.” He adjusted his spectacles, though they did not need adjusting. “I have assured the
société
of your talent—and that the piece will be finished on time.” A not-so-subtle hint that Auguste produce, or the
société
would decide against purchasing his
Balzac
.

A retort dangled from the tip of Camille’s tongue. She took
another drink from her glass to wash it down. It would not help Auguste’s cause.

“A masterpiece takes time.” Auguste’s eyes turned grim. “Something with nouveau lines, a fresh perspective.”

“Can I get you anything to drink, Monsieur Rodin?” A woman in an ill-fitting corset leaned over their table. Her breasts appeared as if they might spring free at any moment, layers of shiny beads sat atop them, and netted gloves squeezed the flesh on her arms.

Camille eyed the woman coldly. How did she know Auguste?

The blare of music from the first floor thumped in her ears. The tap of the woman’s finger on her tray beat against her skull.

Tap, tap, tap.

Auguste smiled. “
Bonsoir
. I’d like a brandy.” He put his hand beneath Camille’s elbow. He nodded to the two glasses on the table before her. “Are you happy with that concoction or would you like a proper drink?”

Tap, tap, tap.

She gulped the remainder of her drink down and sucked in a steadying breath.

“I guess she’ll have another,” the woman said, showing a toothless smile.

Had Auguste slept with this woman? Or perhaps tucked change in her bosom for a kiss? She clutched the arms of her chair. He meant to drive her out, once he had drained her of inspiration, or stolen all her ideas. The image of her
Young Girl with a Sheaf
flashed in her mind. Her throat clogged with emotion.

Tap, tap, tap.

She despised it—this mind of hers played tricks on her. The noise, her senses, the Voice.

“What is it?” Auguste peered into her face. “Do we need to leave?”

Her eyes darted from the woman’s overt leer to Zola’s proud countenance, and back to Auguste’s worried expression. She yanked on the faux-ruby cameo encircling her neck. She couldn’t breathe.

He will suffocate you. Auguste will smother you with false affection and leave you for his band of pirates to poison you, finish you off.

Camille stood quickly, knocking the table. Her second drink, still untouched, wobbled uncertainly for an instant, then tipped. Its contents splashed the gown of the woman serving them.

“What is the matter with you?” She turned her furious glare on Camille.

“Perhaps now you’ll find a dress that fits,” Camille snapped.

The woman drew herself up to her full height, compressing her bosom further. The pressure on the stays was too much. A lace snapped and her naked breast bounced into plain view.

“Oh!” She frantically stuffed the large mound into her corset. “I apologize, messieurs.” Monsieur Zola stared in horror.

Blaring music, the laughter, the stabbing light. Nausea swam in Camille’s stomach. Auguste’s concerned face hovered near hers. “Get me out of here,” she said. “My head.”

He gave a quick conciliatory explanation to Zola.

Laughter, singing, and the roar of voices hovered in the space around her and pressed upon her. She tugged at her cameo once more and stumbled toward the staircase.

“Camille, wait!” Auguste followed her.

A black weight crushed her. She leaned against the stairwell wall, panting.

“What is the matter?” He reached for her and slipped his arm about her. “Are you unwell?”

“It won’t stop. The Voice, the noise.” She melted against him in defeat. “I can’t make it stop.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

He is the reason. He makes the Voice come.

She squeezed her eyes closed. Was it his fault? She didn’t know what was real anymore.

“Shhh.” He stroked the soft skin of her neck. “I am here,
amour.
”

Camille tucked herself in his embrace and let him lead her home.

“D
on’t cry.” Paul rubbed Camille’s back. “It will happen, but you must believe. ‘The darkest hour of the night is just before the turning of the morning,’ as the psalm says. You’re nearly there, sister. I have been praying for you.”

Camille leaned against her brother on the park bench. She had spent six months reworking
The Waltz
and Monsieur Dayot had approved the new piece with delight. He had even secured six thousand francs for an advance—until the director of fine arts voided the commission on the grounds of it being inappropriate.

A torrent of tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. “It’s hopeless. I give up.”

Paul held her at arm’s length. “So that’s it? You are finished, then? You won’t sculpt any longer?”

Not sculpt? The thought made her insides turn to sand. Who would she be without her art? She had nothing. She was no one. Even to Auguste she was an addendum, just someone to soothe his loneliness and make him feel a man.

This is his fault! He turned them against you. He fears your ability and will not stop until he destroys you.

“What is it?” Paul asked. “Your eyes—are you ill?”

“It’s the Voice. It haunts me. It makes me do things. . . .”

“You must stop chastising yourself.” He embraced her. “You’ve
always been too hard on yourself. If you spent some time in prayer, you would feel better.”

Paul did not understand; neither did Auguste. She tried to explain, but each time she spoke of the Voice, they looked at her as if she had three heads. Perhaps hers was broken.

Camille wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I am nothing without my art.”

“That isn’t true!” He shook her slightly. “You’re a beloved sister, a daughter. It’s true you have a gift, but use it another way. Teach others and create for the love of your art rather than to make a name for yourself. As you used to,” he added softly.

“Teach others? As in students?” She recoiled in revulsion. “Why on earth would I do that? I have no interest in wasting my time on amateurs.” And she did not like people all that much. They looked down on her—or betrayed her.

“There is more to you . . . and to life. You are well loved.”

“By whom, exactly?” she said. “You and Papa?”

“And that adulterer who shall remain nameless.”

The one who will destroy you.

Camille shook her head.

“What is it?” Paul asked.

“You would be fulfilled without your quill pen and paper because tutoring and a family’s love is enough?”

He looked down.

“Just as I thought. You would no sooner give up your passion than I would.”

“I would become a disciple of God.” He sniffed. “If he wished for me to give up my writing, I would.”

“Do not make me vomit, Paul. I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Camille stood and paced across the lawn, leaving him alone on the park bench. He could be so infuriating with his self-righteous, godly existence. It made her want to strike him. The worst part was she knew he lied to her face. He would no sooner give up his writing than she would her art.

“Wait!” He raced after her, keeping pace with her rapid strides. “Listen to me. I understand. I would do the same in your position.”

She stopped and met his eyes with a stony glare. “But you aren’t, are you? In my position.”

“I will help you.” He squeezed her hands in his. “Once I have made a name for myself.”

“With two published works, you are well on your way.” She threw her head back and gazed up at the sky, willing herself to control her emotions. She detested the jealousy she felt for her own brother. The shame of it made her hate herself.

“I have . . . something to tell you,” Paul said slowly. “You won’t like it, but it’s the reason I wanted us to meet today.”

“I am happy for your success, regardless of my situation,” Camille said. “You know that.”

He nudged an anthill with the tip of his shoe. A frenzy of miniature insects marched out of their home to locate the source of the disturbance.

“Well?” she said.

“I’ve been appointed First Vice-Consul of France. I depart in two weeks for America.” A shy smile spread across his face.

Camille stood in stunned silence. She could see the happiness oozing from behind her brother’s guarded countenance. He harnessed his joy for her sake. America? Her darling Paul was not just a playwright, but a diplomat. He would leave her and join the ranks of her former friends—Giganti, Jessie, and even Mother. One by one they had abandoned her. And now he would.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you happy for me?”

She regarded his shiny blond hair, slicked to his head with pomade, his expensive coat and foulard. He looked the part of a diplomat.

“Of course I am!” She ruffled his hair as she had when they were children and squeezed him hard. “But how can I part with you? You will be so far away.” A clot of despair clogged her throat.

“I will write to you. And I will write to those blasted ministers and to the papers. They’ll regret they have turned away the sister of a diplomat.”

“And the sister of a famous playwright.” She kissed his cheek. “I am so proud of you.”

Paul beamed at her acceptance.

Camille forced a smile for his sake. “We should celebrate.”

They would celebrate his going away, and her oblivion.

The crackling of old plaster coming loose echoed in the vast ceilings of the château Folie le Prestre, Auguste’s crumbling estate with overgrown gardens and nymph statuettes. Camille adored working in the abode. Though located in the middle of the restless city, it felt like a vacation home, far from all of his assistants and his swarm of admirers. They had multiplied in number in the past year and their presence had become almost unbearable.

Camille caressed Auguste’s face and the silvery hair curling all over his stout chest. He sighed in contentment.

A glint of light winked in the window. Curious, Camille propped herself up on one elbow. There was nothing metallic in the garden. She waited for several minutes more, but the light did not flash again.

Someone has been following you. It’s Rodin’s band! They have come to drag you away.

She reached for the wineglass she had abandoned just before they made love. She finished the remainder in her glass, then his.

Auguste ran his hand over her shoulders and back. “You should eat something. You haven’t touched a thing all day.”

Camille glanced at the third version of
La Petite Châteleine
, now in plaster. She had created a dozen maquettes of children in the past months. Their innocence and vibrant eyes made for beautiful expression, and filled a new ache inside her.

“You have only one son,” she said. “You have never considered more children?”

Auguste pulled on his shirt and helped her into her chemise. “They’re expensive and drain you of energy. They disappoint you.” A look Camille could not decipher shadowed his face.

“You had one with Rose.” Her jealousy left a vile taste in her mouth. “That old hag you live with.”

“You do not want children of your own, do you?” he asked, giving her a wary look.

She ambled to the worktable near the front window. “I’ve never yearned for children the way my sister always has. My art has
consumed me all my life.” She leaned against the sill and stared through the warped glass at the unruly bushes. “A child would only hamper my work and my dreams.”

Auguste came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle. “And imagine this world without the beauty Camille Claudel has created.” He shuddered dramatically.

She smiled weakly. “I would be a terrible mother at any rate.”

She heard the movement in the room before she saw it. The clack of heels on wood floor, the rustling of petticoats.

“Get away from him!” A shrill voice sliced the air.

Camille and Auguste spun around to see a woman. Shock painted Auguste’s features. “For God’s sake, Rose! What are you doing here?”

It was
she
! The woman between them, the woman who kept Auguste from her.
Rodin’s lover.

Rose Beuret pointed a pistol directly at Camille. “You filthy prostitute!” she screeched, waving the gun. “He is twice your age!”

“Put the gun down, Rose.” Auguste took a step toward her. “Jesus, do you want to go to jail?”

“He uses you.” Rose stepped closer. “And he will discard you like he has the rest.”

“He loves me because I’m nothing like you,” Camille said in a steely tone. “I understand his passion. I
am
his passion. And you—you’re nothing but a mother to him!”

Auguste lunged at Rose. The pop of the fired gun sent Camille to her knees. She scrambled behind a worktable for cover.

“He’s mine! Do you hear me? Mine!” Rose sobbed.

Camille hunkered lower to the floor, heaving in gasps of air. The woman had lost her mind. But now, at long last, Auguste must choose. Relief mingled with fear in the pit of her stomach.

Another shot was fired. A bullet ricocheted off something metallic, then a bust exploded, sending chunks of hardened clay in every direction. Auguste grabbed Rose’s arm. She flailed about and her elbow smashed him hard in the nose. He stumbled backward, blood oozing down his face.

A male figure barged through the front door. “Put down your gun!” a familiar voice called out. Sergeant Alphonse Bertillion stepped into the room, a pistol in hand.

Camille gaped at her former suitor. What was he doing here? She shivered at the uncanny coincidence. Here, in the dilapidated studio of her lover, her former suitor had found her once more, and saved her from
un crime passionnel
. Fate mocked her. She should have married Bertillion when she had the chance.

“Madame,” Sergeant Bertillion said, “put down your gun or I’ll shoot.”

Rose’s shoulders slumped and she let the gun fall to the floor. “How did you know to follow me?”

“When I saw you exit the omnibus, you gripped something in your bag,” Bertillion said. “Call it intuition, but I have learned to follow a hunch.”

Rose burst into tears. “I am sorry. I—I did not know what I was doing—”

“Nothing happened,” Bertillion said. “That is what matters.”

Camille stood and brushed debris from her chemise. No sense in hiding from him; the sergeant would see her sooner or later.

Bertillion’s eyes widened when he spotted the object of Rose’s scorn.

“Monsieur Bertillion, we meet again.” Camille grinned.

Auguste looked from one to the other, his face set in a mask.

“Mademoiselle Claudel? How is this . . . possible?” The policeman’s eyes never left her face.

Auguste crossed the room and wrapped Camille in a blanket to cover her state of undress. “Are you hurt?” He brushed the hair from her face with a soft hand.

She withered at his touch. “Your lover needs you.”

“Camille—”

She turned her head to the side. “Just go.”

Auguste’s hand dropped to his side in defeat. “Very well, but I will return for you.”

Bertillion cleared his throat. “Will you see this woman home or shall I?”

“I will,” Auguste said. “She is my responsibility.” Rose stuck out her chin, triumphant to be stealing him away.

In an instant, Auguste finished dressing and the trio departed.

Camille collapsed to the floor in defeat, self-disgust, and despair. Auguste had chosen Rose again. Camille was nothing but a second choice. Her hand flew to her stomach. She had not even found the right moment to tell him—the washing syringe had not worked this time. She had missed her monthly courses.