Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  “I should like to hear one of your melodies, monsieur,” she said, feigning a chipper mood.

  Rodin turned his head that moment and found her face across the room. A sense of recklessness enveloped her. She tilted her head toward Monsieur Archambault.

  “Do you need to join your tutor?” The composer had not missed Rodin’s glance. “Monsieur Rodin?”

  The burn returned, and an unfamiliar ache. The sparkling woman had glued herself to his side. “No.” She choked on the emotion welling inside her. “Not at all.”

  “I would be honored to escort you on a turn through the Salon, Mademoiselle Claudel, artiste extraordinaire.” He smiled.

  She took his arm. “That would be lovely.”

  As they paraded through the hall, Camille tried to listen to the gentleman but could not focus on his words. In the doorway to one of the adjoining rooms, she paused to dare one last glance in Rodin’s direction. He had gone.

  He would abandon her on her first showing for that woman? She frowned as jealousy swarmed her unsettled stomach.

  Chapter 15

  Adèle and Giganti sat entwined on their base per Camille’s instruction. She had been working feverishly on an idea that had awakened her in the middle of the night three months before. The night it came to her, she had lit a candle in her bedroom, enraging her sister at the ungodly hour, and padded down the stairs to the salon. Under the halo of a solitary lamp, she had sketched the Indian princess Shakuntala, once abandoned by her husband and lover, the King. Unbeknownst to the princess, her husband was bewitched. When the spell broke many years later, he returned to her on his knees, his heart full of longing and remorse. The pain of the past melted away at their reunion and their spirits rejoined as if never parted. Camille would show Shakuntala’s forgiveness, the couple’s sacred bond.

  She peered at her nearly life-size maquette. This piece would be nothing like the others shown at Salons. A nude couple, slave to their love and desire, would rock the foundations of the Société des Artistes Français. She might very well be thrown out for it . . . or she may be revered. No other woman had designed such a risqué piece. Excitement pinged around her stomach each time she thought of the work’s potential success.

  Camille pinched a coil that would become Shakuntala’s hair.

  Jessie looked up from her own piece, a young girl in a fanciful hat. “Do you think Emily will rejoin us? She has not been by in weeks.” She cleaned the excess clay off the end of her tool.

  “I doubt it. She has skipped out on her share of the rent. Besides, she talked of being homesick.” Camille sniffed. A friend run off without a proper good-bye—this was why she rarely expended the effort to cultivate her friendships. They always failed her. But she was so thankful for Jessie. With a sudden burst of gratitude, she crossed the room and kissed her friend on the cheek.

  Jessie laughed. “What was that for?”

  “For being a lovely friend.”

  Jessie smiled. “You mean unlike Emily?” She selected another tool on her worktable. “I think she’s gone back to England.”

  “Perhaps, or maybe she joined another atelier.”

  Both Camille and Jessie had abandoned their lessons at l’Académie Colarossi when they became employees for Monsieur Rodin, so they did not know if Emily had attended class. But what could be better instruction than working with a master?

  “I am surprised she did not tell us her plans,” Jessie said, frowning.

  Camille shrugged.

  Adèle scratched her nose, then rested her arm at an incorrect angle, too close to Giganti’s head.

  Camille sighed heavily and adjusted the model’s arm to its intended place. Adèle did not like her but had agreed to pose with Giganti for the right price—and at Rodin’s request. It had taken additional persuasion to get the model to pose in her atelier. Camille could not tell if Adèle detested taking orders from a woman or if she felt uncomfortable being examined by one. In a man’s eyes, Adèle was an object of desire; in a woman’s, she was only an object.

  “I need to be finished by one o’clock,” Adèle said. “Auguste will be expecting me.” She squirmed on her perch.

  Exasperated, Camille stamped her foot. “You will miss your appointment if you move again.” She didn’t care a whit for the model’s plans. Rodin had been locked in his office for days, poring over sketches to submit to a competition. He wouldn’t need Adèle’s services today. The model had lied to her. Not to mention, the hag had the audacity to use his first name. She dared not guess if they had been intimate, or she might throw the model into the street.

  Camille rolled a pellet of clay between her hands and massaged it into place on the haunches of her male clay figure. Yet with such familiarity, Adèle had no doubt slept with him. She mashed the clay a bit harder than intended, flattening the rump too much on one side. She huffed and threw her hands in the air. “Take a break,” she said. She could use an espresso, at any rate.

  The pair of models stretched and slipped on their clothing, while Camille flexed her fingers.

  “I’m headed home.” Jessie removed her gray smock. “Are you coming?”

  Camille shook her head. She had no intention of suffering through lunch with Mother. She had been in the worst humor lately. Besides, Mother seemed to prefer Jessie to her, and she could not withstand her disdain again today.

  A pounding came at the atelier door. Giganti moved wordlessly to answer.

  Rodin appeared, his eyes red, his beret knocked askew. He all but sprinted toward Camille, sketchbook under his arm.

  “Is there something wrong?” Camille asked.

  “I need to speak to you privately,” Auguste said, slightly out of breath. He needed to talk to her immediately; it couldn’t wait.

  Giganti ran a hand through his hair and pulled on a hat. “To the brasserie I go. When you are finished here, would you like to join me, Camille?”

  She nodded.

  “Perfetto.” Giganti smiled.

  “Are we meeting today at one o’clock, Auguste?” Adèle twirled a lock of blond hair around her finger. “I canceled a rendezvous to meet with you.”

  Auguste looked at Adèle as if she were a stain on a newly pressed shirt. “You may go,” he said. “I am occupied this afternoon.”

  The model sniffed, her discouragement plain. “Very well. But I am busy all week.” Without a second glance, she left, slamming the door behind her.

  Auguste grunted. Models could be so self-indulgent. Camille stifled a laugh.

  “I will return in a couple of hours.” Mademoiselle Lipscomb threw her smock over a chair. “Good day, Monsieur Rodin.”

  Silently, he nodded. Once Jessie had gone, he gave Giganti a pointed look. “Please excuse us.” Giganti winked at Camille and disappeared through the door.

  Auguste dropped his sketchbook on the table and picked up a hunk of clay. He rolled it between his palms into coils, then made a figure in the matter of minutes.

  “What is it?” Camille said.

  In silence, he continued until he finished a fifth man, slightly leaner than the others, and placed them in a triangular arrangement. After some time he said, “I am to present my idea for a new commission.”

  “I have noticed your absence this week.”

  A thread of hope began to throb inside him. She had noticed? He forced himself to focus on his figures. “The town of Calais is going to demolish its medieval fortress walls to join the vieux quartier with the new development,” he said. “They want to install a monument as a marker. One that honors the martyr Eustace Saint-Pierre.”

  “Yes, I know the story,” she said. “He and five others forfeited their lives to King Edward of England so their city would not be destroyed.”

  Camille knew the history of Calais? He shouldn’t be surprised; he noticed she read very often. When he flipped open his sketchbook, Cam
ille stood beside him, close enough for the scent of amber and clay to envelop him. She moved closer still, to get a better look. The throbbing increased.

  He cleared his throat. “What do you think of their arrangement?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. No man atop a horse, or in religious robes.” She peered at the maquettes and again at the pad.

  “The men are marching to their doom.”

  “Very clever,” she said. “I’m surprised the ministers have agreed to it. This pushes the boundaries of anything I’ve seen.”

  The taut muscles in Auguste’s shoulders relaxed. Her approval washed away the pressure, the self-doubt with which he had wrestled the better part of the past two weeks.

  “They haven’t agreed to it,” he said. “Not yet.”

  Camille crouched so she was eye level with the figures’ arrangement. After several minutes, she eyed the sketch once more. “Something seems . . . off.” She moved the maquettes a hair farther apart and bent their bodies.

  Auguste stroked his beard, his mind buzzing. The figures were united by their cause, their sacrifice.

  “He is Eustace?” She pointed to the man nearest the center.

  He nodded.

  She moved him right of center, then shifted another figure slightly. “They are individuals, even if their destinies have collided.”

  That was the missing piece! They were individuals, yet joined. Their forms needed to display as such.

  Auguste picked up one of the clay men and bent his torso forward, as if he might collapse in grief. He pulled another’s shoulders back, making him proud of his own courage and willingness. He rotated them and widened the base; it would be square, rather than a pyramid.

  “C’est ça!” she said, her excitement plain.

  He lunged at her, wrapped his arms around her middle, and twirled her around. “That’s it!” She laughed and threw her arms about his neck. After another spin, he placed her on her feet. His hands lingered on her hips. The laughter died in her throat. He gazed at her with the intensity that pulsed in his veins. Her lips parted and a blush burned her ivory skin. The space between them seemed to vibrate.

  “Well then, you have work to do,” she said. “As do I.”

  “You are an inspiration,” he said in a throaty voice.

  She gazed at him with her bewitching eyes. “It would be criminal for them to reject such a design. I can think of nothing more compelling.”

  He squeezed her slightly. When she did not pull away, he leaned toward her and slid his hands slowly over her back. He felt the rapid thud of her heart on his palm.

  She inched closer. “You could also—”

  He silenced her with his lips. She pulled him closer and pushed hungrily against his mouth. A groan rumbled in his throat. Liquid heat surged through his limbs. The wall built long ago inside him melted with the softness of her lips.

  In a swift movement, she tore away from him, gasping for air. “Did you say something?” She looked past him to the corners of the room and the windows, then rubbed her temples.

  “No,” he whispered. The searing need to have her pounded against his will.

  “A voice.” She whirled around to assure herself they were alone. “I heard a voice.”

  He frowned. “There is no one here but us.”

  “But I heard someone. I thought . . .” Her puzzled expression faded, but she maintained the distance between them.

  “It must have been someone in the street. My dear, Camille,” he whispered. “Every inch of me is alive when you are near.” He closed the space between them once more and traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

  She bristled at his touch. “Please. Just go.”

  He regarded the wildness in her eyes, the fear quivering in her limbs. God, he ached for her—a gnawing, consuming ache that kept him from sleep. He ignored her plea and swept her into his arms once more.

  “Leave me!” She pushed against him. “You care nothing for me. Only for my jeunesse.”

  “My darling girl, if you only knew.”

  “Let me go or I’ll scream!” Her voice grew savage.

  Auguste released her as if she had bitten him. Embarrassment, then hurt crashed over him. She did not want him—and of course she did not! What was he thinking?

  He gathered his pride and quit her studio at once.

  Chapter 16

  Camille shifted closer to her brother on the settee and leaned against his shoulder. “I’m telling you, I heard it. A voice told me to run from Monsieur Rodin or he might hurt me.”

  Paul puffed out an exasperated breath. “We have been over this all afternoon. Must we talk about it again?”

  “How would you feel if a demon voice spoke to you?” she insisted.

  “Monsieur Rodin won’t hurt you, Camille.” He wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “He may steal all your time, perhaps an idea of yours, but he would not harm you.”

  Her mind whirred. Was she hearing things, or had some part of her subconscious warned her about him? She wasn’t sure. She squeezed her eyes closed and forced the thought away.

  It had to be nothing.

  The heat of midafternoon pressed upon Camille and Jessie while they worked. Camille wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her smock. She had perspired all morning and now the afternoon had become unbearable. Though it was early autumn, the sun had not yet ceased its punishing heat. She jumped down from her perch above her maquette, submerged a cloth in the water basin, wrung much of the moisture from it, and remounted the ladder. It had been difficult to keep her sculptures moist in the oppressive heat, despite the humid air.

  “I’ve had enough,” Camille said, covering Shakuntala. Not only was she boiling from the sun’s heat, but she burned at the thought of Auguste. She could not expel him from her mind and she resented it, never mind the strange voice. It had spoken to her that night he held her, and warned her about him. Still, they had kissed twice more; the last time Camille had pulled him against her and threaded her fingers through his beard. He had moaned and rested his forehead on hers. Her knees had nearly buckled in response to the delicious sound.

  “Stop it,” she mumbled to herself. She had more important things to ponder—finishing her next piece for the Salon and landing a commission, for example. Her wages from Auguste and the money from her parents scarcely covered her expenses for supplies.

  “I am ready for a pause as well,” Jessie said, placing a cloth on her own piece.

  “Shall we go to the Musée des Antiquités?” Camille asked. “Do some drawing?”

  “It’s a bit far for today, isn’t it?” Jessie washed her hands and face in cool water.

  She shrugged. “Less than twenty kilometers, and a quick ride by train. It would be a nice reprieve from the city heat.”

  And from her thoughts.

  Jessie patted her face dry with a cloth. “An escape from the city would be lovely.”

  A short ride later, the girls descended from the train at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The afternoon sun slid from its pedestal in the sky, yet heat radiated from the paved walkway, and muggy air stuck in their throats and clung to their clothing.

  “It is days like these I detest being a woman,” Camille said, swishing her skirts to create a breeze on her sweaty legs. She regarded the array of fountains, the gardens and gravel pathways laid out in a geometric pattern. Their mathematical design seemed in opposition to the riotous beauty of the flowers bursting from their pots. She peered up at the stone castle, once a king’s playground, a hospital, and now the museum’s showroom—one of her favorite places to derive inspiration. She glanced back toward the fountain. “Come!” She grabbed Jessie by the hand and led her toward it. “First, we cool off.”

  “No.” Jessie pulled her hand from Camille’s grasp.

  “Don’t be such a prude. If you come with me, I will tell
you a secret.”

  Jessie stopped in her tracks. “Is it a commission? Has someone bought a piece of yours?”

  Camille barked a laugh. “I wish that were true.” She skipped the remaining distance to the fountain.

  “Really, Camille.” She caught up to her. “One might think you were a little girl.”

  “Aren’t I?” Her laughter burst with glee as she unlaced her boots.

  “You aren’t going in?” Jessie asked, horrified.

  “Why not?” She gathered her skirts and climbed over the edge of the fountain, sighing contentedly as a current of cool water curled around her sweltering toes and ankles. “The water is divine. Come in.” She held out her hand to assist Jessie.

  Her friend crinkled her nose. “Absolutely not. You are embarrassing yourself.”

  Several couples gawked at Camille as they strode toward the museum. She splashed around and laughed, spraying Jessie in the process.

  “Do not get me wet!” Jessie moved away from the fountain’s edge. “Come out of there at once. We will be asked to leave!”

  Camille skipped her foot over the water’s surface once more, spraying a bevy of cooing pigeons, who skittered out of the way. Lower skirts drenched, she sloshed to the edge and hoisted herself over the rim of the fountain once more. Rivulets of water streamed down her legs and pooled around her feet.

  “You’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of stockings,” Jessie said. “And perhaps your dress.”

  Camille looked down at her clothing. Why did she behave so brashly? Her will was stronger than her sense of reason at times. Was that the price for being so passionate? “They will dry soon enough in this heat,” she said.

  “You had better dry or I won’t sit by you on the train,” Jessie said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, out with it.”

  “Out with what?” Camille laughed wickedly.

  “Do not play coy with me, young lady. Your secret!”

  While wringing out her skirts Camille said, “He kissed me.”