by Heather Webb
Auguste noted with satisfaction Edmond did not extend the invitation.
“I sketch models in their natural state, lying on the sofa, walking around, crouched on the floor,” Auguste said, redirecting the conversation. “It will not be so difficult to do the same for Hugo, though I won’t have near as much time.” He grew more animated as his excitement mounted. Dalou’s envy would not get the better of him. He could already envision Hugo’s bust in plaster. “But I am grateful for any at all.” Smiling, he leaned forward in his seat and held out his hand. “How can I ever thank you?”
Edmond shook his hand and smiled. “Create a great piece, my friend. That’s how you may thank me.”
“Well, then,” Jules said, “let us hope Hugo will be amenable to hosting you in his home. If not, perhaps I will give it a go.”
Doubt clouded Auguste’s good humor. He would do his absolute best to accommodate Hugo’s requests. Jules would not take this opportunity from him.
Chapter 11
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the streaked salon window and pooled on the cold tile, hardly warming the winter chill in the air. Auguste could see the vapor of his breath. Perhaps he would spend a bit less on marble this month and more on wood. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and picked up his novel once more—Les Misérables, Hugo’s most notable work, despite the widely negative reviews it had received. He grunted. The critics always had much to say, but neither the skill nor the will to create themselves.
He read to pass the time until seven o’clock, when he would venture to the writer’s house for his first visit. The only sound came from the rustling of pages between his fingertips, the faint tick of his timepiece.
“Auguste?” Rose’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Would you care for a bowl of soup?” She appeared in her usual navy house dress, her skirts brushing the tops of her sensible boots.
“No, I’m expected at Monsieur Hugo’s at seven for an aperitif.”
“I could wear my white and yellow gown, put a hot iron to my hair.” She fingered a frizzy lock sticking out from beneath her cotton cap.
“This isn’t a social call, Rose. It’s work. I’ll not be dining, but sketching Monsieur Hugo while the others eat. It’s unlikely he will even speak to me.”
“Of course he’ll speak to you. And you’ll talk about literature and politics and woo them all.”
Rodin examined her squared fingernails, the chapped skin of her working hands. “And you detest reading. If we discussed literature all evening, what would you do?”
An image of Mademoiselle Claudel came to mind, her lounging in a chair in her atelier, book in hand. How very intent she’d been. When he had placed his hand lightly on her shoulder she had startled. He smiled at the memory of their passionate discourse afterward.
“Do not mock me.” Rose noticed the smile and crossed her arms.
“I’m not teasing you, woman.” He stood and made his way to the door. “I simply speak the truth. You would grow tired of the talk about Jules Ferry’s laws of education and Prime Minister Duclerc, of political pamphlets, and poetry. I doubt they will gossip about bourgeois socialites and other feminine interests in front of us. We aren’t their friends, after all.”
“You’re meeting a woman there, aren’t you?” Her face flushed in anger. “I embarrass you, yet you parade your mistresses around town.”
“I said I’m working.” Auguste detested conflict and avoided it at all costs. He simply didn’t have time for the angst it inspired. He sighed and stood. Yet he owed Rose his attention. Despite her nagging and insecurities, she had been his first love, and a friend.
Her face softened as he approached. He cupped her cheek in his palm. “Why don’t we go to dinner somewhere tomorrow evening? Wear your best dress.”
She smiled and kissed his hand. “I would like that very much.”
Two hours later, Auguste found himself on the Avenue d’Eylau. He paused to assess the row of redbrick homes, their windows facing a park in the center of la place and the traffic of carriages and omnibuses zipping around the square. He ducked into the covered passageway beneath the building. A woman in a bombazine gown tugged her son closer to shield him from the brittle wind.
Rodin pulled up his collar and continued past several doorways. At number six he paused on the doorstep. Anxiety streaked through his limbs. Though he must remain “unseen” by Hugo, he needed to befriend the others, if possible. The Société des Gens de Lettres, a group of renowned writers, would sponsor an upcoming commission of Hugo and he wanted to be considered. For now, this private bust would make the perfect stepping stone in his studies.
Auguste inhaled a breath of razor-sharp air and knocked. A servant admitted him and led him through the house. Burnished mahogany, cherry, and walnut furniture filled each room. He had heard Hugo had a penchant for antiques and even carved furniture himself, and by the looks of it, the rumors were true. Auguste paused to admire the dovetailed corners of an exquisite table in the study and an ornately carved lattice mounted on the library wall. Chandeliers of Murano glass, burgundy wallpaper and silk drapes, decorative dishes and handiwork covered every centimeter of wall and ceiling, and rich Oriental carpets blanketed the floors. The man had expensive taste—quite the opposite of Auguste’s own humble abode. He spent his every penny on his ateliers.
“Follow me, monsieur,” the servant said, motioning him forward.
The tinkle of glassware and the hum of voices drifted from the salon. Auguste slipped into the room unnoticed, amid famed writers and socialites.
Monsieur Hugo cradled a glass of what looked to be sherry in his hand. From the side, Auguste might be able to sketch his profile. He spied a chair in the corner of the room and headed toward it.
“Not so fast, mon ami,” Edmond Bazire said, eyes merry with the excitement of his company, and perhaps the sherry. “I’d like to introduce you.”
“Of course.” Auguste followed Bazire around the room, greeting various guests. When they made their way to Hugo’s side, his heart bumped a rapid pace in his chest.
“May I present Auguste Rodin, brilliant sculptor, at your service,” Bazire said.
“Bonsoir.” Monsieur Hugo’s pale eyes had the watery film that came with age, his wrinkles deepened when he spoke, and a heavy frown perched atop his brow, leaving Rodin little doubt as to his feelings toward him. “I have not had a pleasant experience with artists and I refuse to remain in one position.” The hand that clutched his glass shook slightly. “I hope that is clear.”
“Quite, monsieur,” Auguste said. “I will be as invisible as breath. You’ll not hear me, nor see me if I can help it.” Yearning to immortalize the great man burned in his veins.
“Excuse me.” Hugo moved toward Juliette Drouet, his lover of fifty years.
Rodin had heard Juliette appeared less and less often at her salon and not in public at all. Her illness prevented it, and given the pallor of her skin and the protruding bones in her cheeks, he did not doubt it.
Swiftly, he moved to a chair opposite Hugo, pulled cigarette papers from his pocket, and put pencil to paper.
Camille deepened a groove in the collarbone of her Madame B bust. Soon it would be complete, just in time for the May Salon. Monsieur Rodin had already told her he would enter it under his tutelage in a very coveted spot. She hummed a tune Louise had played every evening these past weeks. Though melancholy, the notes of the beautiful melody crept into her sketches. She admired her sister’s musical abilities, despite their avoidance of each other, and had even bought her a new book of sheet music to encourage her playing.
Rodin sat at her studio table, drawing. He had come a day earlier than his typical Friday this week, though she tried not to read into his behavior. In the months since they had met, he had missed three sessions, all days Camille could recall with anxiety. Why did his presence mean so much to her?
Because she thought
of him at night.
Rodin looked up as if he had heard her thoughts. She diverted her eyes to her piece.
“I have been to Victor Hugo’s home,” he said, his voice raspy from working many hours in silence.
Camille tossed her tool on the tabletop and dropped into a chair. “Oh? And you’ve come to brag, have you?” She smiled to soften the blow of her biting words.
“Is that how you view me, mademoiselle?” Monsieur Rodin’s voice was soft, disappointed.
She grinned. “I view you as you are. A gentle man, contemplating something most serious. Perhaps a little divertissement is in order.”
“Camille, really,” Emily said, her tone incredulous. “Have you lost your manners?”
“Monsieur Rodin has visited us for months now,” Camille said. “He knows my temperament.”
“I am learning.” A smile touched his lips. “You are a spirited and engaging woman.”
“What is life without spirit? Passion drives an artist, wouldn’t you agree?”
A fierceness filled his eyes, and he captured her in his gaze. She warmed to his sudden intensity. What she wouldn’t give to read his thoughts! To stroke his beard and gauge his reaction.
He looked down, breaking the tension, and pushed his sketch away. “I’ll begin with clay next week, but I’m frustrated by my lack of time with Hugo. He is not a fan of artists, or sculptors at the very least.”
“I’m certain you will do a fine job.” Camille walked to the desk and covered his hand with hers—an apology for her tart comments, a reassurance of her faith in his ability.
Monsieur Rodin studied her face with such concentration, she shifted away from him. The man absorbed her thoughts, her spirit.
Emily cleared her throat. “Should we go to the park? I would like to do a bit of sketching outdoors.”
“The Luxembourg?” Camille asked.
“Let’s,” Rodin said.
Camille dried an array of wire end tools, knives, and chisels, wrapped them in cloth, and tied the bundle with string. She tossed it into her bag and glanced at the visiting student once more. Professor Moreau had sung the young woman’s praises that morning in front of the class; Jessie Lipscomb had won two prizes from the Royal College of Art, a prestigious school in London: the National Silver Medal and the Queen’s Prize. Now she sought real art instruction in Paris, a land that opened more doors to women. Camille couldn’t help but wonder how impressive Jessie’s work really was. She swallowed a lump of jealousy. It was silly to worry about another artist’s work. Jessie’s fine sculptures did not diminish the quality of her own. But the professor had never breathed a word of admiration about her work.
Camille watched the Englishwoman as the remaining students cleaned their stations and filed into the corridor. Jessie wore her tightly curled hair in a chignon, and stood tall in a pearl gray costume with a blouse corsage, typical of English styling. Camille did not have a particular eye for fashion, but Louise had spoken of nothing else since they had moved to Paris.
As Professor Moreau spoke with Jessie, Camille slid her sketchbook into her satchel and pretended not to stare. If only she were closer to make out their conversation.
“Mademoiselle Claudel?” Professor Moreau motioned for her to join them near the door. “I would like you to meet Mademoiselle Lipscomb. As you heard, she is a medal winner.”
Camille’s grip on her satchel tightened. He need not remind her of the medal. She forced a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“How do you do?” Jessie smiled, transforming her plain features. She looked the sort who rarely smiled. Life was a serious matter—a sentiment evident in her drawn features and folded hands, the gray and brown hues of her day dress.
“You two may learn from one another,” the professor said. “Your styles and subjects are different, but you both possess strengths unlike any students I have ever taught.”
Camille tingled at the praise.
Monsieur Moreau flipped a hat onto his head. “Now, if you will excuse me, ladies. I am off.”
“Congratulations on your award,” Camille said.
“Thank you. I am thrilled to be in Paris.” Jessie’s pale cheeks glowed. “I am surrounded by such talent and excitement! I could walk the museums and parks all day.” She dropped her eyes to the floor, suddenly realizing she had shown too much zeal.
Without doubt, Mademoiselle Lipscomb was an Englishwoman.
“Professor Moreau tells me you have an atelier,” Jessie continued. “Would you care to share your work? I would be honored to see it.”
Camille smiled. She decided that instant she liked Jessie’s humble yet direct nature. With a swift motion, she threaded her arm through the Englishwoman’s. “I would be happy to show you my work, but I am starved. Would you care to dine with me at home first?”
Jessie blinked, surprised at Camille’s overt gesture. She shifted uncomfortably. “My aunt is waiting for me in the hall.”
“You are both welcome. Mother will be thrilled to meet a new friend. Particularly a lady artist with proper manners.” A wry smile crossed her face.
“We would be most grateful to dine with you,” Jessie said.
Camille’s smile widened at Jessie’s formality. “Off we go.”
After only a month in Paris, Jessie departed for England with a promise to return. Camille was dismayed at her friend’s leaving. They had gotten on well; their love of art was the strongest bond between them, as well as their temperaments.
When Jessie’s first letter arrived by post, Camille opened it with haste, slitting the skin on her index finger. “Ouch!” A drop of blood rose to the surface. She suckled the small wound while reading the letter.
Jessie spoke of returning! Camille strode into the salon.
“Mother, she wants to move in with us!”
“By she, I presume you mean Mademoiselle Lipscomb?” Mother stuck her needle into the frilly skirt of her pincushion doll and finished the last of her tea. “Her mother doesn’t mind sending her daughter across the channel to stay in a stranger’s home?”
“Everyone who wants to become an artist moves to Paris, even women.” Camille refilled Mother’s teacup.
“I cannot be responsible for her welfare.” Mother added a sugar cube and stirred. “I am sorry, Camille, but she’ll have to find another place to stay.”
Must Mother fight her at every turn? She had enjoyed Jessie and her aunt’s company immensely. The only thing that might change Mother’s mind . . .
“She will pay rent,” Camille said. “Her sums will help with the expenses of the atelier, and our apartment.”
Mother’s dull expression perked up. Camille knew she could not resist additional income.
“Papa will be delighted to have some of the pressure relieved.” Camille could not hide her smile. She knew she had her.
“Louis-Prosper would be pleased,” Mother mused aloud. “Especially to give you a regular lady escort and artist friend.” She let out a long sigh. “Very well. I will write to her mother and arrange it immediately.”
Camille jumped up from her place on the settee and embraced her mother’s stiff form. For once they could agree.
A servant placed the final course of fruit and cheese on the table before Auguste and company, while another poured champagne. He never ate Monsieur Hugo’s food; he did not wish to disrupt the gentleman’s elegant meals, and he certainly did not expect to be fed. Yet despite his delicacy, he received increasing weary looks each time he returned to the Rue d’Elyau. Tonight, Auguste nearly lost his calm when Jules Dalou not only entered the room, but conversed easily with Victor Hugo and his guests. How had Jules managed to count the clan among his friends so quickly?
“How are you this fine evening?” Jules asked, sidling up next to him at the table. “I have been invited to dinner again next week, and drinks with a few men from th
e Gens de Lettres. It seems the old man has taken a liking to me.”
Auguste willed himself to control his emotion. “How nice for you.”
“Hugo complimented my work. Perhaps they will consider me for their commissions.” He swigged from his wineglass. “How are your sketches coming along?”
“Fine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Auguste wanted to knock the haughty expression off his face, but instead, he bent over his cigarette paper to sketch the top of Hugo’s head. A sketchbook at the table would be far too intrusive, though he wished he could use one now. His studies had advanced enough that he needed more detailing. He observed the writer intently to imprint his measurements and mannerisms on the folds of his mind. Without a proper sitting, this was the only way.
Monsieur Hugo drank from his goblet. His eyes drooped at the corners, his cheeks sagged, and grief etched lines around his drawn mouth. Juliette Drouet would pass soon, and all joy had drained from the household.
With a stroke of his thumb, Auguste smudged the circles under Hugo’s eyes on his sketch, and darkened the eye sockets. He sympathized with the man’s struggle to retain his composure.
In a swift and violent gesture, Hugo pounded his fist on the table, rattling the dishes atop it.
Auguste dropped his pencil. Jules looked startled, as did everyone else à table. All conversation lulled and Hugo’s guests turned to face him.
“Stop staring at me,” Monsieur Hugo said, his voice gruff. Despite his eighty-one years, his menacing tone made everyone squirm in their seats.
“Monsieur—” a gentleman at the table began.
“You.” Hugo pointed at Rodin. “Stop staring at me! I am not a circus animal or some science experiment. You capture my pain on paper as if it pleases you.”
Auguste stiffened. “Monsieur? I assure you it does not please me. I apologize—”
“What the devil takes so long?” The creases in Hugo’s forehead deepened. “I look the same today as yesterday!” He stood, bumping the table. His plate chinked against his goblet and it tipped.