Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  “No bubbles in the mold?” Rodin asked.

  “None.” Lebossé presented the bust for inspection.

  “You’ve chased the seam lines nicely.” He ran his thumb over the filmy edges of the piece’s legs. The mold had left crease marks in the wax that an expert hand had blended until no longer visible. “You’ve done a brilliant job along the muscle lines.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” Henri smiled, displaying a set of teeth that jutted too far from the line of his jaw. The poor fellow looked like a damned rabbit with his teeth, bushy beard, and corpulent belly, but he knew how to bronze better than anyone.

  Lebossé carved a hole in the wax head to prepare it for shelling; the piece would be dipped in solution and sanded in layer after layer over weeks to form a strong outer mold. Once the outer mold had hardened, the bust would be heated and the wax drained.

  Auguste walked into the next room to survey the other copy of Dante. It had already been layered and heated, and now sat filled with molten bronze. Even after years and several pieces, he still enjoyed watching the founder’s assistants chip away the outer sandy crust to reveal a bronze replica of his original. He browsed a hall of finished works. The metallic patina gave the myriad of shapes a lustrous finish in the light.

  Rodin frowned at his pocket watch. He expected Jules Dalou, one of his closest sculptor friends, more than half an hour ago. They had agreed to meet at the foundry and walk together to the Café Américain. Jules said he had news.

  As if conjured by his thoughts, a familiar voice resonated behind him. “I am sorry I’m late.”

  Rodin turned to find his wiry friend red faced and blowing hot breath on his hands to ward off the cold. “I was just wondering where you were,” he said.

  “Monsieur Rodin.” Lebossé joined them. “Your busts will be ready for shipping tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Auguste nodded and followed Jules to the door. A blast of icy air greeted them and he lifted his collar against the cold.

  “Boucher said he would join us later,” Dalou said. “He’s working with a student of his. Someone named Claudel. Said he couldn’t let her down by canceling. Whatever that means.”

  “He couldn’t reschedule with a female student?” She must be important to him, Auguste thought. He smiled to himself. The dog. Alfred was probably sleeping with her.

  “There’s talk of reestablishing the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts.” Dalou broke into his thoughts. “It’s not organized yet, but the Artistes Français selected another round of inexperienced louts to sort through Salon submissions. Our fate lies in the hands of the least qualified men in the country.”

  “Who will lead the group?” Auguste asked through frozen lips.

  “I would like to be the president, if the others will have me.” Jules tucked his hands under his arms for warmth. “But first, we will have to choose a location for an annual salon.”

  “The move will enrage the Artistes Français. Are you certain you want to anger the people who support you?”

  Dalou had received the Medal of Honor for his reliefs of the Estates General, Meeting of June 23, 1789 and another titled Fraternity—both dedicated to the memory of the French Revolution. Auguste had been so proud of his friend he had sculpted a bust of him in celebration, though Jules had yet to congratulate him on his own success of several smaller bronze commissions.

  “I don’t give a damn about the ministers and their awards,” Jules said, avoiding a slippery patch on the sidewalk. “And I’d like you to join us.”

  Auguste would join his friends, but he wouldn’t turn away the Artistes Français. It would be career suicide. They still held the majority of influence, not to mention most of the funding for public commissions.

  Another gust of cold air sliced through the waning warmth of his coat and hat. The men increased their pace. The café lay just around the corner.

  “You said you have news,” Auguste said. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to beg?”

  His friend laughed. “You will never believe it.”

  When they reached their destination, Auguste whipped open the café door and heat enveloped them. The men removed their coats and hats and chose a table.

  “Well?” He blew hot breath on his frigid fingers.

  Jules frowned. “They have awarded me the Légion d’Honneur.”

  “Why on earth are you frowning? Congratulations!” Rodin held out his hand for a hearty shake.

  Jules pursed his lips in displeasure, giving his already thin cheeks a sunken look.

  Auguste lowered his hand, surprised by his friend’s rebuff. “You’re an anointed one now. This is fantastic.”

  “It’s a medal devised by that imperial tyrant. Awarded to pieces deemed as art in the eyes of the Bonapartes, who, might I add, knew nothing about art, but merely stole it from other countries.”

  Rodin would kill for the recognition, regardless of who had originally put the award in place. “Now it’s an award granted by the republic. It’s prestigious. A golden seal.”

  “I am not going to accept it. It’s an assault on my integrity.” Jules sipped from his wineglass.

  Auguste knew other artists who had refused the honor. He hated the institut and the standards of the old guard as well, but he couldn’t conceive of refusing the award. The public revered the winning artists. The greasy unease of envy swam in his stomach. No, he would not be jealous of his friend. He wished him the utmost happiness and success; he truly did.

  “It means freedom in your work, mon ami,” Auguste said.

  “I will have more work, yes. But it is your busts of Legros and Laurens that have garnered all of the support in the papers. ‘Rodin is the artist to watch’ and so forth.” Dalou’s eyes darkened.

  Auguste flinched at Jules’s implied jealousy. His friend had received two of the highest honors an artist could win, yet he worried over a few write-ups about him in the newspaper. They had been friends for years—Jules had even appeared at his father’s funeral, a comfort Rodin had appreciated in the midst of his devastation—yet he had not seen this side of him.

  Dalou went on, “What good is an award when I am not respected? Certainly you are.”

  Though Auguste’s cheeks had thawed, he struggled to fight the ice water in his veins. A confidence between him and his oldest friend had come to an end.

  “Maria Botticelli is a real trial.” Camille rolled over on Paul’s bed. “She thinks she is above my instruction, and it is I who pay her.”

  “What do the others say?” Paul asked.

  “Amy and Emily don’t reproach her. They allow her to prattle on, complaining about every pose, sniveling about the cold, the crick in her neck, after only minutes in her position. If she doesn’t like the work, she shouldn’t do it. I am fed up with her and it has only been a month.”

  “Perhaps you should give her more breaks.” Paul peered at her over the edge of his book. “I have posed often enough for you. You’re a demanding little wench.”

  She tossed a pillow at her brother. He blocked it with his fist before it reached his face.

  “Maria is paid to be still.” She crossed her ankles and eyed the polished leather of her boots. “I allot plenty of time to stretch or take meals. Monsieur Boucher says it is difficult to find good models. He believes paying her more will encourage her to shut her mouth.”

  “Why don’t you take his advice?”

  “We do not have more money, and I don’t believe she will behave better.” She snapped one of Paul’s suspender straps.

  “Ouch! What did you do that for?” He rolled upright into a sitting position, giving her his back.

  Camille laughed. “You lie there so innocently.” She rubbed his back. “I’m sorry, brother.” Something about their relationship brought out the child in her, despite her nineteen years.

  He looked over his
shoulder. “I have just found out I have the highest marks in the class in letters and literature.”

  Camille propped herself up on one elbow. “Of course you do! Shall we celebrate? I will buy you une demi. Whatever beer you wish.”

  “Don’t you have a gentleman caller this evening?”

  She flopped against the pillow and groaned. “Monsieur Bertillion. He isn’t all bad, but I am not interested. I had hoped to frighten him the last time we met.”

  Paul laughed. “Better luck next time.”

  There wouldn’t be a next time. Camille jumped to her feet. “Come on!” She pulled on her pelisse and fastened a burgundy hat to her hair with pins.

  “You don’t think Mother will notice us walking out the front door?” he asked, skeptical.

  “We’ll make a quick getaway.” She tugged on his hand. “Let’s go to the Étoile area. I’ve been dying to see the electric streetlamps.”

  Paul ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. “My hat is in the front hall.”

  She smiled, her eyes alight with mischief. “Fetch it, quietly.”

  Camille inched the bedroom door open. Paul tiptoed down the stairs behind her, nearly knocking over a vase perched on a decorative table in the corridor. She pushed a finger to her lips. When they reached the front hall, Paul snatched his hat from the rack and followed Camille through the door. It stuck as he tried to pull it closed.

  “Come on!” Camille raced down the apartment stairs.

  “It won’t close.” He jerked on the latch, slamming the door. He thundered after her without regard to the clattering he made in the hall. Camille threw open the building’s main door and paused to venture a look over her shoulder. The maid poked her head out.

  “Run, Paul!” she squealed.

  He held his hat to his head and dashed after her. They had run ten meters when the building door opened and Mother peered out into the dark.

  “Arrêtez!” she shouted. “Right this instant!” She waved her arms about as if the house were on fire. The crinoline under her cream skirts swayed like a bell. “Camille, Paul! How dare you leave our guest unattended! Come back here!”

  Camille laughed in glee, nearly slamming into a figure clad in a striped suit.

  “Pardon me,” the man said.

  At once Camille recognized the astute face of Alphonse Bertillion. “I apologize, but I must go!” she shouted without slowing. Paul ran fast at her heels.

  They ducked around the corner and huddled in the doorway of a church, Ursulines de Jésus. Paul leaned over, panting. “We’ll be in for it when we return.”

  Camille laughed, her stomach aflutter from the thrill of stealing away. “Mother will yell, but I am a grown woman. I make my own decisions.”

  “Which are usually merde,” he said, shoving her playfully.

  She guffawed and then gulped in another breath. “My decisions aren’t shit.”

  The echo of heels on stone drew closer. “Do you think Bertillion is following us?” Paul’s clear blue eyes widened.

  “He’ll never follow us in here.” Camille pushed her brother inside the church, through the vestibule, and into the nave.

  A hush enveloped them. Not a soul graced the rows of polished pews, though a priest must have lurked about. A circle of candles flickered on the altar. Their light dissipated in the vast darkness.

  Camille stared at the towering ceiling. Their slightest movement would be amplified in such a cavernous space.

  “This place is creepy,” Paul said, craning his neck to take in its wide expanse. When he looked down again, he met Camille’s watchful gaze. Her stillness unsettled him. “What?”

  She saw the fear shining in his eyes. “They built those ceilings with purpose. To make us feel insignificant and small. To steal our sense of self. If God is all-loving, why would he wish for such a thing? If he exists, he does not reside here.”

  “You miss the point, sister.”

  Camille rubbed her hands together, the leather of her gloves slipping as they shimmied back and forth. “Have you become religious, then? Papa would laugh to hear such a thing. Perhaps that school is not so good for you after all.”

  Paul looked down at his boots, a sheepish expression marking his features. “Your skepticism doesn’t erase someone else’s faith, or God’s existence—if there is a God,” he added quickly.

  “Our family has been skeptical about religion our entire lives, and you as well as any.” Her brow furrowed.

  “Can we change the subject?” Paul glanced around the dim room and shuddered. “Let’s go. I feel as if—”

  “You feel his eyes upon you, do you?” she goaded him.

  He ignored her quip and hurried to the door.

  When had he turned into such a coward? Camille looked over her shoulder a last time. A shadow stretched from the altar’s crucifix across the floor. A shiver tingled along her spine.

  She felt the sudden need to escape as well, and hurried after Paul into the night.

  Camille wiped her hands and peered out the studio window. Something wasn’t quite right with her piece, but she couldn’t discern the issue. The sun beamed over the rooftop tiles, peeped in windowpanes, and flooded the alleyways between buildings. The sunshine did not fool her; her morning walk to classes and the atelier had been brisk, but she needed fresh air to clear her head. She untied her stained apron and tossed it over a chair.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said to Amy and Emily, who looked up briefly and then retrained their eyes on their sculptures.

  Maria straightened from her awkward pose. “Finally.” She rotated her head back and forth to stretch her muscles. “I’ll break for luncheon and return in three hours.”

  “Three hours?” Camille looked at her with an incredulous expression. “I’ll lose too much light by then. An hour and a half at most.”

  Maria screwed her perfect mouth into a pout. “How am I to eat in such a short time? I’m meeting someone across town. Besides, I have been working for two hours already.”

  Anger overwhelmed Camille’s contemplative mood. She wouldn’t finish the piece before she ran out of money at this rate. Not to mention she would miss the submission deadline for the May Salon.

  “You’ve worked for two hours and expect three to repose?” She clenched her fists. “It seems you have forgotten I paid you for the entire day.”

  Maria pretended not to hear her, slipped into her undergarments, and reached for her vermillion day dress.

  “Let her go,” Amy said. “We kept her an extra hour last night.”

  “She stayed an extra hour because she had to stop five times yesterday!” Camille said. “And the day before she did not show at all.”

  “You don’t need to work her so hard.” Amy crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I only demand what I paid for!” Camille said. “If she is unable to fulfill the hours, she should not accept payment for them.”

  Emily exchanged looks with Amy as if a secret conversation had passed between them.

  “This arrangement is not working.” Camille threw her arms in the air. “It seems I am the only professional here.”

  Maria snorted. “As if a woman will get anywhere in the art world anyway.”

  “At this rate you won’t find me giving recommendations for your service!”

  Maria opened her mouth to speak, but Camille’s look froze her tongue in place.

  “I’m going out for a couple of hours.” Camille pulled on her wool cloak and gloves, and tucked her sketchbook under her arm. “I expect you to be here when I return.” She slammed the door behind her and lunged into the street.

  Maria had some nerve, demanding time off, more money, day in and day out. As soon as Camille finished this piece, she would seek a new model. Perhaps she would begin looking sooner. Something needed to be done about Amy and Emily a
s well. They seemed not to care whether or not they advanced with their pieces, and what’s more, they whispered about her at every turn. It did not make her work any easier.

  She ambled along the street in search of a comfortable place to sit. She missed Villeneuve, its wild landscape and even the torrential rain that pelted her skin—the kind of weather that ripped away artifice and deepened the soul. Though Paris had its own sensibility, a heartbeat even, it did not offer her the same comfort as her summer home.

  Camille sat on a bench near the entrance of a popular brasserie facing a nook of greenery, a place artists and students frequented. She flipped open her sketchbook and retrieved a pencil from her pocket. A hungry bird hopped about a patch of grass. Pencil to paper and she drew its outline. She lost herself in her drawing, the sun warm on her face despite the chill. As two women passed, she glanced at their heads inclined toward one another, their eyes condemning. She did not care that she sat unescorted, boldly in the middle of the day. Her reputation could be damaged, but it mattered little to her. She did not hold society’s mores on a pedestal. She pitied those women. Their lives must be insipid, each moment of their days planned by another, their friends chosen by another, their very dreams dictated by another.

  Camille sketched the robin’s feathers, the lump of its rusty throat, its curious gleaming eye. She looked up again as a gentleman neared her bench. His agile form moved with grace, his curling dark hair bouncing beneath his cap. He stopped for a moment to retrieve his watch from his jacket pocket. She noted his long thin fingers, his angular jaw—yes, he seemed familiar. He sat beside her on the edge of the bench and nodded, a polite greeting from a stranger. She remembered now. He had been at the fountain, waiting for a sculptor to choose him.

  “Good day, monsieur.” Camille closed her sketchbook, suddenly excited.

  The gentleman smiled. “Good day.”

  His thick Italian accent confirmed her suspicions. “You are a model?” she said as more of a statement than a question. “I saw you at the Rue Bonaparte.”