Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  “Oui.” He tipped his hat and bowed his head. A smile tugged the corners of his lips. “How do you do?”

  “Are you currently employed?” She flashed her most congenial smile.

  “Not at the moment.” He returned her smile. “But I have worked with Mercié, Bourdelle, and Rodin. Do you know a sculptor who might be interested in working with me?”

  “I know none of those sculptors, so I will have to take your word for it. But I am interested in your services, monsieur.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

  “May I?” She held out her hands.

  “Of course.” He removed his hat and leaned toward her.

  Camille tilted his head and probed the bones of his face. “You’d make a fine study.”

  The gentleman smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “So I’ve been told.”

  “I’d hire you for multiple projects, if you are available,” she said. And terminate Maria the instant she returned. “Would you care to see my studio?”

  Another look of surprise crossed his features. “Your studio?”

  “It’s not far from here.” She gathered her utensils.

  They returned to 117 Notre Dame des Champs. Camille entered the studio in her characteristic rush and tossed her shawl and coat over a chair.

  “Mes amies, this is Monsieur—” She stopped and looked at him with a quizzical expression.

  “Giganti.” He removed his hat. “Bonjour.”

  “Welcome,” Amy said, smiling brightly at their guest. Her hand flew to her hair in an instinctive gesture.

  Emily dropped the hunk of bread she nibbled on her plate.

  “Giganti has agreed to—”

  The door opened and Maria entered, out of breath. “I’ve made it!” She stopped when she saw the handsome Italian. “And who do we have the pleasure of meeting?”

  Camille checked the clock on her desk. “It has been two and one half hours. Consider yourself dismissed.”

  “Camille!” Amy stood in outrage. “You don’t make all of the decisions. Not without consulting us. I say she stays.”

  “Dismissed?” Maria’s eyes widened. “But you are in the middle of a portrait. You won’t find someone as competent as me for the pittance you paid me.” She crossed her arms and stamped her foot. “I won’t go.”

  Emily stuffed in another bite of bread to avoid replying.

  “You would continue to let the model take advantage of us?” Camille turned to Maria. “You may go. Immediately.”

  “I am only half-finished with my angel,” Amy said, her brown eyes flashing. “I need her.”

  “Make your angel a male. Besides, it looks as if you need to start over at any rate,” Camille said cruelly. She wrapped a hand around Maria’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “You have wasted our money and time long enough.”

  “Unhand me at once!” Maria looked back at Giganti for help. He shrugged and smiled. He seemed to enjoy the drama playing out before him.

  “Good day to you.” Camille thrust the woman through the door, turned the key in the lock, and returned to Giganti’s side. “Now, as I was saying, this is Giganti and he’ll be our new model.”

  “I’m delighted to work with you all.” His smile was packed with square white teeth and dressed with dimples.

  Amy crossed her arms over her chest. “Take it back. Take back what you said about my work.”

  “Amy.” Camille huffed out an impatient breath. “I apologize if your feelings are hurt, but I only speak the truth. Your professors and tutors have not told you because they want your money. But I will tell you because I am your friend. Your last few pieces have been not only amateur, but downright dreadful. You spend little time practicing or studying. You need to put in the time to learn technique, or move back to England and marry. All you talk about is men anyway.”

  At once, Amy’s eyes filled with tears. “This is how you repay me for befriending you.”

  “I am your friend by telling you the truth. And by the way, friends don’t whisper about you while you’re within earshot—or at all.”

  Amy tossed her smock on the floor, stomped across the room, and threw on her coat. “I’m leaving.” Emily glared at Camille and scrambled after Amy.

  Regret hit her instantly. The truth always pushed its way from her gut and up her throat to spill out in the open. To her chagrin, few appreciated it. Now she had lost one of the only girls who had ever been nice to her—even if Amy had been jealous and whispered about her.

  Camille sighed.

  “Shall we begin, mademoiselle?” Giganti asked.

  She smiled weakly. “You just said the perfect thing.”

  Chapter 7

  Camille reworked a mass of clay with her fingers, softening it, shaping the mound into a human nose. Paul’s nose, to be precise. His face had changed into that of a young man and she wanted to preserve him in time. Her mind emptied of every thought save the shape of Paul’s proud forehead and chin, his stout posture and probing eyes. The truth in his face, the wisdom and forbearance had always struck her and remained one of the things she loved most about her brother. To chisel beneath the surface of her subjects’ skin, to tunnel into their secrets and reflect them on the faces of their busts, or in the movement of their limbs, was her favorite part of sculpting. Paul made for an easy study.

  With a fine wire tool, Camille trimmed the clay well of Paul’s eye sockets. Last night she had read the early pages of a play he was composing. One day he would be revered for his stories. She could feel it.

  An hour passed, two. . . .

  The splat of a plaster spatula against its portrait interrupted Camille’s reverie. Emily worked intently on her soldier, made in Giganti’s likeness. The model had proven to be an excellent choice. He never complained and Camille liked his contagious, optimistic nature. It balanced her own thick sarcasm.

  She looked up from her bust. Though Emily had returned, Amy had not, even after the letter of apology Camille had sent. She sighed. Now they would need another student to help pay rent.

  A knock came at the door.

  Camille rubbed her hands together to loosen the clay crust coating them, dipped them in a basin of cool water, and scrubbed.

  Someone knocked again.

  “J’arrive!” Emily called, before rushing to open the door.

  Monsieur Boucher and an unknown gentleman entered. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,” their tutor said. “I have brought a fellow sculptor and friend to see your work. I present to you Monsieur Dubois.”

  Camille studied the gentleman. His middle protruded, stretching the buttons of his morning coat, and his shoulders sagged in fatigue. Pouches of purple-black skin puffed under his eyes. Had some sort of tragedy befallen him? She tried to decipher the emotions of everyone she met and filed the information away for later. She never knew when she might need ideas to layer a piece with meaning.

  Monsieur Dubois nodded curtly, his eyes locked on the naked Giganti. “I see you are . . . hard at work.”

  “Always.” Camille bit her lip to keep from giggling at the gentleman’s shocked expression. She wondered how long her using a male model would garner such surprise. Really, Monsieur Dubois was a sculptor himself. He must have worked with real female artists before.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Emily asked.

  “Thank you, but no. I have only stopped by to see a Mademoiselle Claudel’s work.”

  Emily’s face fell.

  “I am Mademoiselle Claudel and this is my friend and fellow sculptor Mademoiselle Fawcett. If you are inclined to view her work as well?”

  Emily shot her a grateful smile.

  Boucher laid a fatherly hand on Camille’s shoulder. “Monsieur Dubois is the director of l’École des Beaux-Arts. He would like to see your last few pieces.”

  A
mix of indignation and awe swirled inside Camille’s belly. Women were prohibited from studying at Dubois’s académie, yet he came to see her.

  “Of course. Right this way.” She whisked around the room, unveiling several of her studies: a bust of young Paul, David and Goliath, and a maid bent over her washing. When she removed a sheet covering a plaster bust of La Vieille Hélène, a cloud of dust filled the air.

  Monsieur Dubois sneezed, then hacked and wheezed as dust particles filled his lungs.

  “Here, man.” Boucher pounded him on the back.

  Camille reached for a carafe on the table and poured him a glass of water. “Monsieur?” She placed it in his hands.

  Dubois sipped from the glass. “Goodness.” He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes. “Thank you.” He set the glass down and perused her remaining pieces. Camille watched as he ran his fingers over the varied surfaces of the offending sculpture, detecting the grooves and dips, the smooth planes and violent peaks.

  “Simply incredible,” the sculptor said.

  A flicker of glee sparked in Camille’s chest and spread until a full smile blossomed on her face.

  “You mimic Monsieur Rodin beautifully,” Dubois said. “He has taught you well.”

  Her stomach clenched. He thought she copied the styling of another? Her work mimicked no one’s. She hadn’t met a single person who used light, or its absence, exactly as she did. Few artists wrenched the soul from the depths of their subjects and portrayed it with such vigor and detail. Only the masters had managed this feat. Humble or not, she ranked her work among the more skilled artists.

  Monsieur Boucher looked taken aback by the minister’s statement. “There may be some similarities, but Rodin prefers harmony in his silhouettes and musculature. Look here.” He ran his pinky finger over a furrowed section of the sculpture of Hélène’s head. “Camille’s works show violent contrast, light and its absence, and an intimacy all her own. The very antithesis of Rodin’s style.”

  Monsieur Dubois scratched the yellowed beard on his chin. “Perhaps.” He shot Camille a questioning look, as if he did not understand her.

  The glee Camille had felt vanished, and she restrained herself from saying something vulgar. Her temper had sprung up more and more often these days, though she did not understand why. Yet, even if she detested the idea of his assumption, she must mind her manners.

  She stuck out her chin. “Pardon my impertinence, Monsieur Dubois, but how might I mimic Monsieur Rodin? I have heard his name mentioned only once before in passing, and I’ve never laid eyes on the man or his work.”

  “No?” Monsieur Dubois’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Perhaps you should.”

  Chapter 8

  Auguste pushed an array of clay maquettes to the corner of his desk and opened his sketchbook. He thumbed through its pages, careful not to smudge the charcoal drawings, until he came upon a series of cathedrals. He squinted and pulled the book closer to his face. His blasted eyesight grew worse by the day, but he refused to wear spectacles. They warped his perception of surfaces, which did him no good. He rescued a drawing pencil teetering on the edge of his desk and flipped to a fresh page. The outline of his Gates of Hell, its facade adorned with tormented figures, emerged on the page in several strokes.

  He paused and tapped the paper with his pencil. Hell meant longing without respite, never attaining satisfaction. He drew a woman, desire on her features, and a man reaching for her, his agony plain. Auguste’s longing took shape in the form of lust for his legacy, that magical inspired moment—the scent of a woman’s skin.

  The sound of shuffling feet alerted him to a visitor, and he looked up from his drawings. Alfred Boucher, his friend and colleague, stood in the doorway.

  “Come in, Alfred. Sit.” He motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk.

  Boucher eyed the brown stain and the fine dust covering everything. “I prefer to stand, thank you. I’ve just had my trousers cleaned.”

  Rodin took in the joy that lit Boucher’s eyes. “You look cheery. What’s happened?”

  “I have just heard,” Alfred said, his voice bubbling with exuberance. “I have won the Prix de Rome.”

  The winning artist received a stipend to study for eighteen months in the Renaissance capital, a very competitive prize and quite difficult to obtain. Nearly every artist Auguste knew had applied and failed.

  He jumped to his feet and extended his hand. “Congratulations! Marvelous news.” He shook Boucher’s hand vigorously. “You are on your way.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Despite Auguste’s show of enthusiasm, the familiar tide of yearning rushed over him each time a friend advanced and he ran in place.

  “When do you leave for Italy?” he asked.

  “I don’t begin my studies for another two months, but I depart within a fortnight.” He cleared his throat. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I have a favor to ask of you.” Rodin raised his tawny eyebrows. “I’ll be leaving behind a protégé.”

  Auguste returned to his chair. “I am far too busy to take on a student.”

  “She’s not just any student.”

  “She?” He stroked his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Is this the woman you are sleeping with?”

  “Good God, no!” Alfred said, astounded at such an accusation. “She is my pupil and nothing more.”

  “I’m sorry, Alfred, but the women I have tutored do not commit themselves to their studies as heartily as they should and rarely advance. I couldn’t possibly devote more time to someone who isn’t serious.”

  Alfred cracked a smile. “You’ll never meet a student more serious than Mademoiselle Claudel. Her love of sculpting rivals yours and mine. And it is more than that.” He leaned on the edge of Auguste’s desk to meet his eye. “She is . . . special. She learns quickly and I would call her skill near advanced.”

  Auguste grunted in disbelief. “She has talent?”

  “She needs direction and practice, but her will is fierce, her devotion unquestionable. I daresay she is a woman possessed. And yes, she’s the most talented student I have ever worked with to date.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Meet her. Take a look at her work. If you aren’t satisfied with what you see, decline.” He straightened once more. “I will find someone else in your stead if you aren’t interested. But I am loath to send her an inferior tutor whom she will quickly surpass in skill.”

  Auguste heaved a sigh. “I’ll give her a chance, but please warn her. I have no time for tomfoolery and if she cannot keep pace with my instruction—”

  “Mademoiselle Claudel will show her work one day. Soon, I’d say, especially under your direction.”

  Rodin held up his hand to halt Alfred’s assumption. “Now, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  Alfred smiled and put on his derby hat once more. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Camille’s shoulders and neck ached with fatigue. She had been working on Paul’s bust for hours without rest. She rubbed her sore hands. “Is there any bread left?”

  “It’s gone.” Emily bent over a bucket of plaster and stirred the thick mixture.

  She groaned. “I bought an entire loaf yesterday. You ate it all again?”

  “There’s no need to be cross,” Emily said. “We will get another.”

  “We, or do you mean me? You haven’t paid your share of the expenses this month and now you eat all the bread.”

  “If you had not insisted we purchase the most expensive tools, I would have paid you already.” Emily flicked her wet hands over the bucket of plaster, showering the floor in snow white droplets.

  “You wish to work with inferior supplies?” Camille knitted her brow. “I would prefer not to cast our lot with artists who lack proper instruction and materials. No one takes their work serious
ly. If you’d like to join their ranks, then go.”

  Was she so abnormal that no one understood the depth of her passion, of what she would sacrifice for her vision? One day there would be someone who grasped her driving need to create.

  “You don’t need to be so testy. Of course I do not want inferior supplies.” Emily tossed a rag at her. “And I have already sent for more money from Papa.”

  Camille dropped into a chair and rubbed her face. “I’m sorry. I am hungry, is all.”

  Emily saw a figure approach the door through the window and scurried to greet the unknown visitor. “Oui, monsieur?” she said.

  “Rodin. Auguste Rodin.” The man removed his black beret. “Monsieur Boucher sent me to evaluate your work.”

  “Please, come in. I am Mademoiselle Fawcett. And this is Mademoiselle Claudel.”

  Camille’s eyes fixed upon the stout man with fiery hair and flowing beard. It was the sculptor at the fountain who had been surrounded by models, the one who had looked so important. “You are the tutor Monsieur Boucher has sent?” She smoothed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes.

  After a lengthy apology, Monsieur Boucher had explained why he must take his leave. Though the news had saddened Camille, she could not help but wish the best for her kindly tutor. Ever generous, he had assured her of Auguste Rodin’s accomplishments and talents, though she doubted his assertion that Rodin’s talents rivaled his own.

  Monsieur Rodin nodded, and moved through the atelier without invitation, pausing to peer at each piece. Intensity exuded from his person.

  Was the sculptor timid or self-important? Camille could not tell, for he did not say a word. Confidence emanated from his square shoulders and direct gaze, yet he did not have an exalted air about him. Intrigued, she watched him tour the atelier. The skin between his eyes wrinkled over a sloping nose. What could he be thinking?

  Despite her interest in the sculptor, Camille pretended to busy herself with cleaning and rearranging her tools. Emily folded her hands like a well-mannered Englishwoman and leaned against the wall.