by Heather Webb
Camille stepped into the night to flee the tenderness of his caress, and the tide of emotion sweeping through her.
Part Two
1885–1887
La Valse
The Waltz
Chapter 14
Camille swirled the last bite of pigeon and tender onion in the wine sauce and chewed it thoughtfully. She needed to scrub her stone this afternoon and prep it for chiseling. The last block of marble Jessie had chosen had a vein running through it and the blasted thing had split in two. Her friend should know better to avoid weak stones by now, but then, that was probably Rodin’s reason for not appointing her a praticien. She glanced at the empty chair at the dining table. Jessie worked through lunch. Camille often did as well, but today she needed sustenance. The hammering, chiseling, and filing she had ahead of her would take a great deal of strength.
As would her avoidance of Rodin.
Mother scraped her fork against her plate in an uncharacteristic show of poor manners. Camille flinched at the noise. “What was that for?”
“I am speaking to you and you pretend as if you don’t hear me,” she said. “What is going through that head of yours? You’re blushing.”
Corinne bustled into the room, carrying an assortment of letters. She handed one to Camille. “Can I get something for you, mademoiselle?” She asked as she placed the remainder of the stack in front of Mother.
“Thank you—no.”
Camille opened the single letter and quickly scanned the text. “The Société des Artistes Français has accepted Giganti!” She squealed. “It will be displayed in their May Salon!” She jumped to her feet and pecked Mother’s cheek. “Perhaps I will receive a commission from a patron.”
This was it! The beginning of selling her work and being admired.
The beginning of being loved.
Madame Claudel’s blue eyes tightened. She patted the place where Camille had kissed her with a stiff hand. “I suppose all of the money we have spent on you is not a complete waste.”
That was the only compliment Camille would receive from her, and so be it. She did not care—her work would be on display for all of Paris to see!
“I must tell Monsieur Rodin.” The mention of his name ignited the burning once more, and it spread from her middle to her chest and face. She laughed aloud. The man made her feel as if she were on fire. Suddenly everything made her happy.
Mother smoothed the lace tablecloth with her hands. “We haven’t finished our meal. Sit down.”
“I am quite finished, Mother.” Camille kissed her hastily on the cheek, snatched up a hat, and dashed through the door.
Auguste squinted at Giganti, then refocused on his portrait. He nudged the shoulder of the clay study with his thumb and a wreath of shadow draped the figure’s abdomen. Parfait.
His stomach gurgled loud enough for the model to hear. Giganti held back a laugh. The model had learned to be restrained, particularly under Auguste’s watchful eye. If he so much as drew in a breath, he would be chastised.
Auguste stepped back from the armature. “Let us break. Apparently I need to eat.” He had been unable to think of food the past week, since the night he had touched Camille. Did she find him repulsive, a man—her teacher, no less—much too old for her? But she was a woman, not a girl, he reminded himself. He scrubbed at the clay crust on his hands. She had leaned into his palm, eyes closed and lips parted. Heat shot through him at the memory. But since that evening, she had managed to avoid being alone with him. He glanced about his atelier. He wondered when she would arrive—
That instant, Camille barged through the atelier door, a letter in hand. Her lovely features glowed with happiness.
Warmth flooded his chest. She had received her admission letter. He watched her dash across the room toward Mademoiselle Lipscomb. She found her friend huddled in a corner, crouched beside an armature, her eyes level with the plaster hem of a woman’s dress.
“It’s been accepted!” she shouted.
Mademoiselle Lipscomb embraced her friend and the two hopped up and down, then pulled each other round and round in a circle like schoolgirls.
Auguste smiled. So full of life and excitement, they were.
“Congratulations!” Mademoiselle Lipscomb embraced her again.
Giganti, now dressed, joined them and Camille launched herself into his arms. The model laughed and twirled her around before placing her on her feet. She leaned in to kiss him. Auguste felt his joy contract. Giganti slung his arm around her shoulders possessively.
Perhaps they were lovers. The thought hit him like a blow to the gut. No wonder Camille had fled from him that night. He turned his back on the happy trio and curled his hands into fists.
“Monsieur!” The musical voice that haunted his dreams, her voice, called to him. He looked over his shoulder to find a beaming Camille. “Did you have something to do with this?” She waved the letter at him.
“I thought Giganti deserved recognition,” he said. He had spoken at length about her talent to his critic friends and written a letter to the director of the société on her behalf. “It’s a remarkable piece.”
Camille crossed the room, stood on the tips of her toes, and placed a kiss upon his cheek. A triumphant smile lit her face. Auguste’s jealousy dissolved. Dieu, he loved to make her happy—and that frightened the hell out of him. He nodded and continued to his office and closed the door.
Paul perched on the faded velvet pillow in the window seat of Camille’s room while she applied rouge to her lips. For the Salon, she must look a proper lady.
“Écoute.” Her brother thumbed through one of his books and read aloud.
I summoned plagues, to stifle myself with sand and blood.
Misfortune was my god. I stretched out in the mud.
I dried myself in the breezes of crime. And I played some fine tricks on madness.
“Are you reading Rimbaud again?” Camille asked.
Paul closed his book. “How did you know?”
“Because the passages are either about hell or they make no sense.”
“He makes perfect sense to me.” Paul licked his thumb and rubbed at a spot on his shoe until it shone.
A soft knock came at the door. “Camille?”
“Come in, Mother.” A tide of sadness swelled in her breast. Mother refused to attend the Salon, lest she be seen amid the “infidels of Paris.” Camille had hoped she might go anyway, perhaps show support for her daughter’s success for a change. At least Papa would be home tomorrow in time to see Giganti on display, even if he could not escort her on opening night. Paul and Louise would join him.
Mother stood beside Camille at the mirror. “I . . .” She looked down at her folded hands. “I wanted to wish you luck at the Salon. Even if sculpting is a foolish waste of time . . . you have done well.” A certain vulnerability and a touch of pride shone in her eyes.
“Mother?” Camille’s own eyes widened in shock. She squeezed her mother’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “I will make you proud of me yet.”
Mother attempted a smile. “Don’t let me keep you. You mustn’t be late.” She left the room in a rush, clearly uncomfortable by the display of emotion.
Camille glanced at Paul in disbelief. He shrugged. That was the first time Mother had complimented her artwork. Sure, she had praised her for high marks in letters and history, or an occasional witty comment when the family bantered, but never for her sculpture. Unexpected tears threatened. She blinked several times to keep them at bay.
“You’ve been in front of that mirror for an hour,” he said. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
She launched one of her hats at his face. “You will spend twice the time on your toilette tomorrow.”
“Very funny,” he said, having caught the hat easily.
Camille smoothed the front of her black-and-gold-striped skirt and peer
ed over her shoulder to check her bustle. All appeared in order. Filigree eardrops of shiny black stones dangled from her lobes and an ebony velvet ribbon encircled her neck, the perfect complement to her low neckline. She pulled on one black silk glove, then another. Perhaps Monsieur Rodin would be pleased. Camille frowned in the mirror. She had far more important things to think about tonight.
A tramping of hooves clamored in the street. Paul pushed aside the lace curtain and peered into the street. His face screwed up into a scowl. “Monsieur Rodin awaits.”
Camille glared at him. “He is my tutor and employer, Paul.”
“He steals all of your time. I miss you.”
She smiled. “I miss you, too, but I’ve learned a lot from him. His connections are a big part of why my bust was accepted.”
“Your talent is why your bust was accepted.” He stood. “I fear for your reputation. He is known to be a lady’s man, Camille. You do know that?”
“Of course.” She snapped her powder box closed. “And yet, I haven’t seen him with a woman as long as I have known him.” She noticed his crossed arms. “Do not worry about me.” She leaned over him and mashed her lips against his cheek to blot her rouge. She laughed at the scarlet ring left on his skin. He swatted her hand and fished for his handkerchief in his pocket.
Jessie stepped into the room, still fiddling with her gray pelisse. The jacket blended with her unassuming gown. When she saw Camille’s attire, her hand flew to her hair. “You’re wearing feathers . . . Shall I?”
Camille eyed Jessie’s simple hairpins, bulging with a mass of dark curls. Jessie would not feel comfortable in a more ostentatious hair ornament or a flashy dress. No sense in making her worry all evening about her appearance. Her friend’s intelligent discourse would make up for her wanting beauty.
“Here, wear my brooch.” Camille fastened a sterling oval etched with a blooming rose to the high lace collar of Jessie’s costume. “You look lovely.”
Paul followed them downstairs.
“Good evening.” Rodin exited the carriage so the ladies might sit first.
“Meet my brother, Paul,” Camille said.
Paul extended a hand in greeting, though his features were pinched. “Monsieur Rodin, take care of my sister.”
Camille laughed at Paul’s possessive reaction. “There’s no need to worry, brother. Jessie and I are in good hands.”
Paul nodded tightly and watched them mount the carriage.
Once settled, Camille noted Monsieur Rodin’s elegant suit and top hat, and a red carnation at his lapel. She wondered who had fastened the flower there. The thought made her squirm.
“I see you own clothing that isn’t spattered in plaster,” she said. “Strangely enough, we do as well.” She laughed, her good humor plain. “The flower is a nice touch. Your wife has excellent taste.”
He glanced at her painted lips. “I do not have a wife. And you, mes filles, are stunning.” Though he addressed them both, his gaze never left Camille’s.
Her smile widened. He wasn’t married, then.
Jessie cleared her throat. “You must tell me how to behave, monsieur.”
“Admire the art, be gracious, and above all, do not take offense at the criticism. Some opinions you may like, but often you will dislike what is said about your work. Remember those who render judgment do not understand the inspiration behind them or the care with which we shape them.” He clutched the polished head of his cane. “It’s not them we please. It is ourselves.”
Rodin could make such a declaration because he had so many commissions, Camille thought. His list of admirers grew by the day.
The carriage stopped in front of the Salon de Champs-Élysées. Gentlemen milled about in elegant suits decked with silk ascots, beaver-felt top hats, and dress coats with swallowtails. The ladies hurried indoors to escape the light rain, resplendent in silk, their sleeves adorned with ruche detailing or frilly ribbons.
“Look at all their lovely hats,” Jessie said, touching her rather plain one.
Women sported miniature derbies, porkpie hats, or the newly fashionable tall felts trimmed with flowers, feathers, or lace.
“What a crowd.” Camille swallowed hard. She had not expected so many people to attend. Suddenly she wished she could hide in the private confines of her studio. She did not enjoy being in a room full of people. Her fingers itched to sketch or mold, or even hammer at a block of granite—anything to calm her nerves. What if the critics despised Giganti? She must begin her career on the right foot. She looked frantically to Rodin.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his eyes sympathetic.
Camille smiled bravely. He must have learned to enjoy these events, though she knew he preferred the solitude of his studio as well.
“My work will be at the next Salon,” Jessie said emphatically. “I will do everything in my power to be here.”
“Of course you will,” Camille said, squeezing Jessie’s hand.
Monsieur Rodin took a lady on each arm.
The evening flew by in a blur of clinking glasses and light chatter that grew louder as the night wore on. Camille and Jessie floated from one piece to another, scrutinizing each.
“I like this one,” Jessie said, stopping before a sculpture of a woman in full gown and hat.
“You prefer the realist tradition, I see. They are similar to your own pieces.”
Jessie nodded.
Camille recognized the beauty in the same pieces, but found them rather dull. She preferred the more radical approach in her own work: to adapt proportions of the human form to reflect the emotion she wanted to convey—just as the Impressionists, as the painters called themselves, demonstrated an altered view of reality. She admired that quality about the painters’ vision.
“I am going for another turn through the main room,” Jessie said. “Care to come?”
“I think I’ll head over to Giganti again, to observe the viewers.” She cracked a smile. “I will meet you later.”
Camille watched the wealthy patrons flit about, critiquing her bust as well as several studies for The Gates of Hell by her own Rodin. She put her fingertips to her lips. Her Rodin? She glanced around the room quickly. Had anyone heard her thoughts? No one had the slightest idea who she was, she reminded herself. Right? She scanned the room again.
Rodin stood across from a sculpture of a warrior dressed in helmet and sandals, grasping a sword, the muscles in his forearm flexed from the weight of the steel he carried. The statue had been fashioned in the classical Roman style and was technically perfect, but lacking in spirit like the dozens of others she had seen. It was a wonder Camille had been asked to be in the Salon at all, with such repetitive samples in the showing. She sipped from her wineglass. At least the wine was good. She looked from one unknown face to the next and wondered where Jessie had stolen off to—probably with the English couple she had met earlier in the evening.
A beautiful woman in a sparkling gown with a low neckline approached Rodin. She laughed and touched her earlobe in a coquettish fashion, then brushed away a gold curl from her forehead. Rodin appeared enthralled by their conversation. He leaned closer to the woman, his lips so very near her ear.
Camille’s mouth went dry. She had put off his subtle advances, and yet, she could not stand the sight of him in another woman’s presence. She drained the last drops from her glass and set it on the base of a nearby Madonna.
An elegant woman in rose brocade sneered at her obvious lack of respect.
Camille glared back. She had seen one hundred Madonnas. This one was not so distinguished and neither was it well crafted, but it had been made by a man and that is why it had been accepted. Camille selected another vin rouge from an attendant’s tray. It must be so easy to be a man. But she would show them all. This Salon was only the beginning for her.
She returned to Giganti and retreated to a
nook just within eyesight of it. Two gentlemen stood before the bust, measuring its worth.
“I wonder what he is thinking.” The man with the square head and thick black hair leaned in for a closer view. “Don’t you agree? It’s magnificent.”
“It looks as if it was made by an amateur,” the other said, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his crooked nose. “The detailing is all wrong.”
Camille felt as if she had been struck in the gut. An amateur would not show at the most prestigious Salon in Paris.
“I disagree,” the dark-haired man replied. He leaned closer to the bust. “Look at his eyes. It’s as if he is being consumed by some inner sorrow, yet he juts out his chin proudly, to ward off the next offense that might come his way.”
A rush of gratitude filled her heart. Camille wanted to embrace the gentleman.
The tall man shrugged. “It looks like one of Rodin’s castoffs.” He sauntered away.
Camille bit back an unexpected wave of tears. She was accustomed to Mother’s rebukes, but not those from strangers and certainly not from those who might attack her work. The man’s words stung more than she had anticipated.
The dark gentleman looked over his shoulder at her. “What do you think this Giganti is thinking?”
Camille buried her wound and put on a brave smile. “I cannot share his secrets, monsieur.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You are the artist?” His eyes dropped from her face to her bare shoulders and neck. “Mademoiselle Claudel?”
“C’est moi.”
“I am Joseph Archambault.” He tipped his head forward in a polite gesture.
“Are you an artist as well?”
“Of sorts. I am a composer.”
Though he was not attractive, the gentleman’s intelligent gaze appealed to her. Besides, he possessed a refined taste in sculpture. She smiled, suddenly thankful for the distraction from both the harsh criticism and the blonde in the sparkling gown, who still held Rodin’s attention.