Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  Camille remembered his expression as he raked his eyes over her work, how he had pointed out her shortcomings. Emily had gloated all afternoon about his not mentioning any of her flaws. She chewed her bottom lip at the thought.

  “I’ve just heard some gossip about Monsieur Rodin,” Emily said. “A friend in London wrote to me when I mentioned he might be our new tutor.”

  Camille clenched the teacup with force at the sound of his name on another’s lips. “What did she say about him?” She affected a bored tone.

  “It’s quite scandalous. Judy said a French sculptor by the name of Auguste Rodin was accused of working directly from life castings for a piece called The Age of Bronze. The sculpture’s likeness to reality was claimed too real to be made by hand.”

  Her pulse began to skip. “Is he a fraud as they say?”

  Emily shrugged and popped a chunk of buttery crust laden with custard in her mouth. “Mmm. I am never disappointed. French food really is superior.”

  “Of course it is,” she snapped, her irritation plain. She wanted to hear more, not talk about their national differences. “What happened to Monsieur Rodin? Was he banned from showing the piece?”

  “It was shipped from Brussels to Paris for the Salon, but the same talk followed him here. His assistants and models were called in to attest to his honesty, but the Belgian authorities wouldn’t allow the models to cross the borders into France. Can you imagine?” Emily wiped her mouth with a cloth. “Several artists came to his aid. Dubois, Boucher, and Chapu. They all verified Rodin’s work. Apparently, his greatest problem is his refusal to conform to the classical approach. We should demand to see proof of his work if he returns here.” Emily’s eyes danced with excitement.

  “I don’t care to see him again, or his work.” Camille stared at her reflection in her cup. “He stalked through here like a panther, criticized me, and left as quickly as he came.” She did not say how much she had hoped he would return, or that she waited for the post each day. But the letter did not come. A gray malaise gnawed the edges of her good humor. Monsieur Rodin had not found anything redeeming in her work.

  Emily perked up at the knock at the door. “I will answer it.”

  “It is likely to be my sister, Louise,” Camille said, standing as well to rinse her cup. “She said she might stop by today to see the studio.”

  “Is Mademoiselle Claudel here?” A male voice drifted from the door—a voice Camille knew after only one meeting, a voice that had come to her in more than one dream since. The tempo of her heart increased.

  Emily showed him inside. “Camille, Monsieur Rodin is here to see you.”

  The sculptor walked into the room. “Good day, ladies.” He held his worn beret in his hands.

  Camille cursed herself for the nervous energy pulsing through her veins. “Monsieur Rodin.” She did not hide her irritation. “I thought we would not have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

  Emily gaped for an instant, then snapped her mouth shut.

  “Forgive me for the delay. I have been very busy and did not have the time to respond as I had hoped. Until today, that is.”

  “A letter would have been sufficient.” Camille couldn’t help herself. His indifference had made her feel foolish and undeserving, a little girl in a grown man’s world. It made her want to spit.

  He frowned. “I won’t apologize again, Mademoiselle Claudel. I am a busy man.”

  “So you said.” She crossed her arms to prevent the current of anger that roiled inside her from boiling over. She did not understand her reaction to him. Somehow he had managed to get under her skin, after she had met him only once.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” Emily attempted to dispel the tension.

  “No, thank you,” he replied.

  “If I may be so bold to say, I am a great fan of your work,” Emily said.

  Camille snorted. Emily had never seen his work.

  Monsieur Rodin glanced at her, a question in his eyes. She got the distinct impression he had no idea what to make of her. But that was just as well. If she said what she really thought, she would need another tutor. She glanced at him and looked away. How did she feel about him? She flushed with embarrassment, though she hadn’t the slightest idea why.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Fawcett,” he said. “May I see what you have been working on lately?”

  “I would be honored.” Emily held her hands together as if her prayer had been answered.

  A pang hit Camille—of envy, or was it disappointment? Monsieur Rodin had not asked to see her pieces. She shook off the absurd feeling and focused once more on Madame B. The first rendering of the bust had been a mess. Today she would come close to completing its improved design.

  Monsieur Rodin followed Emily to her statue of a little girl.

  “Nice work here,” he said. “The folds of her dress appear fluid. A swirl of silk and cotton around her knees.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” Emily wrung her hands again.

  At last Rodin turned his azure gaze on Camille. “And yours, mademoiselle?”

  She tossed her head to flick the fringe of dark hair out of her eyes. Why in God’s name did this man make her feel less than confident? Without a word, she removed the cover over Paul’s bust.

  “You have repaired it, I see.” He peered at the piece. “This line of his jaw.” He stepped back and squinted.

  She tried to appear disinterested, yet clung to his every word.

  “A job well done, Mademoiselle Claudel.”

  Her rigid shoulders melted like a mound of clay in a rainstorm.

  Monsieur Rodin ran a thumb gently over the bridge of Paul’s nose. “If you are still in need of a tutor—”

  “We are!” Emily cut in. “Pardon me, monsieur. We would be honored to accept your aid.”

  He nodded and looked to Camille for verification.

  Something stirred in her breast—relief, delight, and something more she could not name. She relished his uncertainty. But she knew the moment she had first laid eyes upon the man she would not reject his help. Something about him . . .

  “When will we begin?” she asked at last.

  Monsieur Rodin smiled somewhere beneath his beard.

  Auguste found himself on the doorstep at the atelier on the Rue Notre Dame des Champs the following day. He had planned to work all afternoon, but his feet had a mind of their own. His hand hovered near the brass knocker. Would Mademoiselle Claudel accept his assistance? Last night he could not shake the woman’s face from his mind. Her demeanor intrigued him—sharp, yet eager for praise. He saw it in the way the muscles in her face relaxed at his compliments, the way her indigo eyes shifted from challenging to warm.

  Auguste looked down at his newly polished shoes and adjusted his scarf.

  The door flew open without warning. He stumbled backward, knocking into a man on the street. “I beg your pardon!” he said, flustered. The man grimaced and kept walking.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Monsieur Rodin,” Mademoiselle Fawcett said. “I was on my way to fetch a few things. Would you care to come in?”

  “I’ve come to begin lessons. I had some extra time today,” he lied. He didn’t have a single spare moment and yet, suddenly this was the only place he wanted to be.

  An eager smile lit her face. “Very good. I will go later.”

  Inside, a model lounged on a chair as if waiting for instruction. Auguste stopped to stare. He knew well the dark ringlets that framed the model’s high cheekbones and angular chin. Giganti, who hailed from Naples; he had worked with him several times in the past. Curious he should find Giganti here, in a novice’s studio. As a professional, he could work with anyone he chose. Auguste felt a strange twinge at his presence there. Perhaps he would hire the model again.

  Mademoiselle Claudel, engrossed in her task, did not notice his ar
rival. She pounded a pile of mushy clay with a wooden rod. A few minutes more and she could roll it into loaves.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Rodin stopped beside her prepping table.

  The thwack of her tool ceased and her vivid blue gaze met his. “You’ve returned, Monsieur Rodin?” she asked, her surprise evident.

  A nervous twinge niggled in his stomach. “I have extra time today. Unexpected, but pleasant, so I thought we would begin your lessons. We will start at the Louvre.”

  “We’ll not work in the studio?” She dropped the wooden instrument into a bucket with the others and began massaging the clay into thick ropes. Her dainty hands moved swiftly over the length of them, doubling them in width.

  The twinge returned and he looked at the floor.

  Giganti rushed to greet the famous sculptor. “Monsieur Rodin! Am I to have the privilege of working with you this afternoon?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I’m certain we will sometime soon.” He glanced at Mademoiselle Claudel, as if seeking her agreement. She continued her work without looking up.

  Auguste cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Claudel, will you join us?” Somehow he knew he should request she join them and not require it. This woman would not be told what to do.

  “Indeed, monsieur, I will.” She washed her hands in a basin and dried them on a dingy cloth.

  “Allow me, mon amie.” Giganti helped her slide on her coat.

  Auguste raised an eyebrow at the familiar tone with which the model addressed her. Was there something between them?

  Mademoiselle Claudel smiled and kissed Giganti on each cheek. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow morning? The clay is prepared so we can get started immediately.”

  Giganti beamed at her. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  A foreign sentiment gnawed at Auguste’s stomach.

  Mademoiselle Claudel met his eye once more, but this time mischief lurked there. “May I?” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. Surprised, he said nothing, though his blood warmed.

  Mademoiselle Fawcett stared for an instant, appearing surprised by the gesture as well.

  Auguste didn’t know what to make of the young woman’s bold behavior, but it appealed to him. She was different from any woman he had ever met.

  Monsieur Rodin had begged off this week’s lessons. Camille wanted to ask him why, but did not want to intrude. Neither did she want him to think she tracked his movements. She only wanted to be sure he would not desert them. Yes, that was all. She chewed her thumbnail. She had struggled with her drawings all evening, despite the fact that she had the apartment to herself. The rest of the family had accepted an invitation to dine with one of Mother’s friends and she had faked being ill.

  Camille tapped her pencil against the desktop. Why hadn’t Monsieur Rodin shown them his studio? She had yet to see any of his work outside of the occasional maquette he carried with him. She imagined the Dépôt des Marbres to be a grand place, packed with many materials, tools, and statues and busts galore. She glanced at the time. Nine o’clock already? She hadn’t made any progress at all. Perhaps she needed a break.

  In a split second, Camille made a decision. She jumped from her chair, pulled on her winter things, and hired a coach. She would go to Rodin’s atelier to peek in the windows. There would be no harm in that. No one would be there and she could get a sense of who this man really was.

  As the coach rumbled through the city streets, she wrestled with herself. What if he was there? She must stay out of sight.

  When she descended from the coach, a flutter of nervous energy swarmed her stomach. Light blazed in the windows. She crossed the street quickly and put her back against the stone facade to shield herself from view. She smothered a laugh. She was a spy, embarking on a clandestine mission. She leaned toward the window and gazed inside. Dozens of pieces, armatures, and platforms filled the space. Her eyes darted from one corner of the room to another, and settled on the solitary figure inside.

  Monsieur Rodin. He bent over a bust of what appeared to be a young woman, and he was so absorbed, he did not see her. He likely noticed nothing outside of his piece. Camille knew that sensation well. She stepped into full view and pressed her face against the glass to watch him. At last she had met someone as consumed with sculpture as she was. She smiled in the dark.

  The Hôtel Continental was lavished in gilded molding, chandeliers, and velvety crimson fabric. Dozens of windows reflected the candlelight and the flicker of lamps, casting the ballroom in a haze of gold. Befitting for the birthday celebration of a national hero, Auguste thought. He still could not believe he had been invited to Victor Hugo’s birthday celebration—Edmond Bazire, journalist at the radical Intransigeant, critic, and new friend, had secured his invitation and Auguste, in turn, had managed to bring Jules along to the soiree as well. He would work at their friendship until there was no hope—they had known each other so long. Perhaps they had hit a rough patch, was all.

  Attendants in black-and-white livery swarmed the crowd like an army of worker bees, silently refilling empty glasses, wiping soiled surfaces, and whisking trays of delicacies beneath the noses of their distinguished guests. Auguste enjoyed watching them, their smooth expressions a thin veil that did not disguise their disgust for the wealthy, or perhaps a desperate longing to be like them. He studied the wrinkled hands of an attendant, saturated with fatigue, and the hump in his back. He found no pride in his work, but burden.

  It was a sentiment Auguste could capture, and he understood it well at times. He felt his breast pocket in search of cigarette papers, a habitual gesture. His desk drawers overflowed with small scraps covered in sketches made on the go.

  “You haven’t brought them, have you?” Jules Dalou asked.

  “I should know better.” Auguste sipped from his glass of Mouton Rothschild 1870, one of the more expensive wines he’d ever tasted. “Inspiration always comes when it is inconvenient.”

  “Artists see something noteworthy in life the rest of us lower beings never notice,” Edmond said, a wistfulness in his voice.

  Jules chuckled and picked up his fork. “Perhaps writers rival our talents, or musicians, though I doubt it.”

  Edmond cocked a fair eyebrow and glanced at Auguste.

  Rodin drank deeply from his glass to prevent himself from saying something rude. Jules should show more humility. His awards had made him feel invincible and above the rest. Auguste knew an artist was only as respected as his next piece in the eyes of the critics. Consistency mattered more in the long run, rather than one dazzling piece.

  Edmond swallowed a bite of roasted chicken. “My cousin is to voyage on the Orient Express.”

  “The luxury train?” Jules’s eyebrows knitted together.

  “Lucky man, isn’t he? It stops in Vienna and Constantinople. I heard the food and exotic vistas are well worth the trip. Intricate paneling, silk sheets, leather armchairs. I must admit, I’m envious.”

  “Won’t they have to stop at every border?” Auguste asked, unconvinced. “Sorting through all of the travel papers must be cumbersome for the crew. But Constantinople I would like to see.”

  “Think of the intrigue.” Edmond’s brown eyes danced. “At each frontier, spies could jump aboard and hide from their enemies.”

  Auguste laughed. “You have a rich imagination.”

  Jules waved his fork. “I don’t know who would consider traveling to be a luxury. I detest it. And riding among all of the wealthy would put me off for certain.”

  Edmond grunted his disagreement, putting an end to the conversation. This evening, Jules was not winning any hearts.

  The men ate in silence.

  Auguste looked past his tablemates to the place of honor where Victor Hugo sat. He had watched the great man from afar all evening, his stately stature and noble expression. Hugo neve
r stroked his beard and comblike mustache, nor did he fidget. The man possessed composure and grace, even at his advanced age of eighty-one. Hugo was his childhood hero, a Goliath among his contemporaries. Republicanism, the common man, his legendary love for Juliette Drouet—all of the writer’s accomplishments, the allure of his personage, echoed in Rodin’s mind.

  “I must thank you again, Edmond,” Auguste said, breaking the silence. “I am honored to be here, and for the chance to bring a guest.” He nodded at Jules. He had hoped bringing his friend to such a coveted event would smooth over their last, uncomfortable meeting.

  “They are honored you’re here.” Edmond bent his blond head over his almost empty plate.

  Auguste smiled. “You flatter me.”

  “I have a surprise for you.” Edmond’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his wineglass. “I may have convinced Monsieur Hugo to allow you to sketch his likeness.”

  Jules’s fork clattered against the porcelain.

  Auguste didn’t know what to say, how to express his gratitude. It would be a dream to work with the great Hugo.

  “I have left you speechless.” Edmond flashed a crooked smile. “Don’t be intimidated. Monsieur Hugo appreciates art in all its forms, though he doesn’t care for posing. Write to him with your request. Whatever his rules are, you must agree to them.”

  “Well, aren’t you the fortunate one,” Jules said, his voice full of spite. He dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. Auguste flinched at his friend’s tone.

  Edmond’s easy manner grew tense, and he looked sideways at Jules. “Are you feeling out of sorts this evening?”

  Jules’s ears reddened. “Do I seem cross? I’m just in awe of Monsieur Hugo and such a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Perhaps you will have your own,” Edmond said, pressing his lips into a hard line.