by Heather Webb
“What? Who kissed you?”
“Monsieur Rodin.”
Jessie stared. “No! Camille, that won’t do. He is our teacher. He’s—”
“I know.” She tilted her face to the expanse of summer sky and sighed. “And yet, my senses betray me. I step into the circle of his energy and I am consumed.”
“I cannot condone this,” Jessie said. “You must control yourself, no matter how hard that may be.”
Camille flinched at her disapproval. She did not wish to be entangled with Rodin—she had promised herself she would steer clear of him. Yet she found herself thinking of little else. Each night when she closed her eyes, his scent of sandalwood filled her senses. Her fingers tingled, anxious to probe the shape of his face, the curve of his lips.
“Oh, Camille.” Jessie rested her hand on her chest as if surprised. “You have a fire in your eyes. Your cheeks are blooming. You are in love with him.”
The words hit Camille like a blow. She couldn’t be in love with him. Her art meant too much to her. If things disintegrated between them, it would be a disaster extricating herself from his influence.
“You know he lives with a woman and has a son with her. Rose Beuret.” Jessie’s face was a mask of concern.
Rodin lived with the woman still? Her damp skirts became irritating against her skin, the beauty of the museum and its gardens insulting. The euphoria buoying her for days drained from her body, leaving her hollow. She knew he had a son, but she hadn’t realized he lived with a woman still. Had Camille been in the privacy of her bedroom, she would have smashed something and dissolved into tears. But she would not appear a fool in front of Jessie.
“What has that to do with me?” Her words came out strangled.
Jessie’s mouth fell open. “That doesn’t concern you?”
Camille picked the leaves from a low-lying branch one by one, shredded them, and watched them flutter to the ground. She couldn’t imagine why the woman stayed with Rodin. Everyone knew he’d had lovers, or at least the rumors claimed he did. Mademoiselle Beuret must know. She clamped down hard on her tongue. How could she have feelings for a man who treated his lover with such disregard? She must keep her distance.
“I suppose it does. A little,” Camille admitted at last. She swallowed hard. “Are you ready to go inside?”
Jessie embraced her. “Keep your distance and all will be well, my friend.”
The girls ambled toward the museum.
Auguste pulled his lantern closer and hunched over his desk. He put charcoal to paper, and the hunk cracked and split, leaving a trail of black crumbs on his sketch. The martyrs of Calais stared vacantly in the distance and were now crowned by a dusting of black stars, vacuous and absent of light. The stars absorbed life from the weary men. Auguste pressed his finger on the specks and smudged them across the page. A wind tunnel appeared beneath his thumb, poised to suck Eustace, leader of the martyrs, into oblivion. He thought of the swirled tangle of Camille’s hair after a long day’s work.
Perhaps it was he who would be swept away.
A smile played on his lips at the thought of her wildness, her bold expression. Her advice on the placement of the statues had been brilliant. He labored over his visions, while she drew on her inspiration and never questioned its validity—a both admirable and foolish trait. Fledgling sculptors should question their techniques and the structure of their works to grow their talents. He snorted. He liked to pretend he was a master and she, a mere pupil, but she could hardly be called a fledgling sculptor. She learned in a few lessons what had taken him years to master. And she taught him as well.
Auguste plucked the maquette of the Calais monument from the corner of his desk. Omer Dewavrin had been pleased with his design, though many others opposed Auguste’s vision and crucified him in their reviews. But he would not produce the same tripe as every other sculptor before him. He turned his model over in his hand. His men appeared resolute, yet anguished to leave behind all they loved, to sacrifice their lives. Nevertheless, pride and nobility emanated from their stance. He would not succumb to his opponents’ lackluster vision. They did not recognize fine art.
Auguste pitched a loose hunk of clay across the room. It thudded against the window, then plopped onto the amber-colored hardwood floor. If only his most ardent supporter had been reelected mayor. Omer had advocated for him, but now with him out of office, the commission was threatened. Auguste fished his friend’s letter from his drawer. Several other ministers wanted him out of the running, but he wouldn’t let that happen. He would leave for Calais tomorrow.
Auguste descended from the train in a pristine suit and hat. Rarely did he wear clothing not splattered or stained, but he knew when to put on airs, and he knew the right people to impress. He clutched his valise and crossed the platform at the Gare Calais-Ville, hired a cab, and rode the distance to Dewavrin’s home. The gentleman had offered him room for a few nights and to coordinate a meeting with another of the ministers of the conseil municipal.
On Dewavrin’s doorstep, Rodin inhaled a steadying breath. His lungs filled with salty air tinged with the musty odor of seaweed. He could smell the ocean from here, though he had never laid eyes on its glistening waves. He knew its beauty only from Monet’s paintings, but one day he would venture to the shore.
The handle rattled and a lock turned. A maid ushered him inside while another carried his valise to his room.
“Monsieur Rodin,” Dewavrin greeted him. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person. And this is Andre Calin, one of the ministers on the council.”
“Very good of you to come, monsieur,” Rodin said to Calin. “I am pleased to meet you both.”
Monsieur Calin’s expensive clothing did not hide his lumpy frame and scabrous skin. The poor bastard had probably never bedded a woman in his life.
“The feeling is mutual,” the councilman said.
“Shall we take our meal in the garden?” Dewavrin led them through a set of glass doors. “The breeze and shade will be more refreshing than this stifling room.”
The trio sat near a sweep of willow trees, which from a distance looked like a furry mop of hair. If Auguste were a painter, he would capture their unusual beauty.
The maid poured glasses of Chablis for each of them. “We are serving moules frites, messieurs. We purchased fresh mussels early this morning.”
“Very good. Thank you, Céline.” Dewavrin shooed her away.
Rodin took a sip of the refreshing Chablis, at once cool and crisp in his dry throat. “Tell me more about Calais. I am fascinated by medieval histories.”
An hour of polite conversation and Rodin felt himself grow restless. He scooped the last of the broth with a mussel shell and poured it into his mouth. The savory liquid spread over his tongue. He needed to talk about the monument, but did not want to rush the ministers.
After the gentlemen nibbled on a platter of cheeses, the maid poured an aperitif of Calvados, the region’s famed apple brandy.
Auguste cradled his aperitif in his hand, liquid courage to bolster his bravery. “I am happy to be here in Calais, the land and peoples that inspire the monument, on such a brilliant day.”
Monsieur Calin folded his hands and rested them on the tabletop with an official air. The mood of the conversation shifted with the gesture. “Tell me, what is your vision for the monument?” he asked. “I have seen the initial maquettes, and I must admit, I find the display rather curious. It is not at all what I envisioned.”
Auguste sat straighter in his chair. “I chose to display the figures in bondage so we might see their pain and sacrifice. The nobility in their acceptance of death.”
Calin ran his fingertip around the rim of his glass several times without speaking. “I think the choice is a mistake. They do not appear noble in prisoner’s clothing, but degraded and lacking in humanity.”
“Their clothing
illustrates how death strips each one of us of our stations and titles, our accomplishments and failings. One who looks upon my burghers will not see the figures as bourgeois, farmers, or the poor, but as men, united in a cause to save their town.”
“Bourgeois clothing your onlookers can relate to, monsieur.”
“And they cannot relate to the men’s humility?” Rodin gripped his brandy glass. “I see we have different views.”
“Very. I’m afraid many of my council members are in agreement with me. The design you propose is revolutionary, monsieur.”
Auguste embraced the idea of revolution in sculpture. It was long overdue. He did not withhold the defensive note that crept into his voice. “The maquette you have seen is a rough sketch and far from finished.”
“Yet I imagine the issues we have just discussed will remain the same?”
“I don’t see them as issues, but strengths,” Rodin said. He had lost other commissions and he had been mocked with The Age of Bronze. Now his skin had thickened, his place among artists more certain. He would not be bullied into a concept that lacked teeth.
Monsieur Calin laced his fingers together. “As I thought. And the square base you prefer will remain over the classic pyramid?”
“For this piece, yes.”
“You have chosen a design that breaks tradition in every way. You may see how difficult you are making things for yourself and the council?”
Anger crept along Auguste’s spine, but he knew he must restrain himself. Diplomacy won hearts. “I am an outlaw in the eyes of the art ministry,” he began, “and, it would seem, in yours as well. But I attempt to create my own masterpieces, not those as designated by the standards of the école. For that I will neither apologize nor alter my vision. I am the artist, monsieur, and a fine one at that. You must trust my instinct.”
Monsieur Calin wiped his weak chin with a napkin and pushed back from the table. “Well, gentlemen, I see we are at an impasse, and I must be on my way. Thank you for a delightful meal, Monsieur Dewavrin. And good luck to you, sir,” he said, nodding to Auguste.
“Good day,” Auguste replied. Monsieur Calin did not like his work, nor him, it seemed, but he would not beg for his acceptance. He must gain the commission another way.
“I will see you out.” Dewavrin followed his guest through the house.
Rodin looked out at the row of birch trees that marked the end of the property line. Their regal white bark and flittering leaves stood out in the sea of green. He would continue forward with his plan: see the town of Calais and find a location for the monument.
Dewavrin returned, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “I must apologize for him. You know I disagree. Your piece is magnificent, in my view. Even the painter Jean Cazin came to your defense. I know fellow artists speak out for one another at times, but he seemed very impassioned by your design.”
“I’m grateful for his aid,” Rodin said. He would owe Cazin a favor after this pledge of support.
Dewavrin went silent and watched a lark flutter about in a nearby tree.
“You have something to say.” Rodin perched on the edge of his chair. He knew by the man’s hesitance to speak, it was news he’d rather not hear. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. “What is it, Omer?”
“In the newspaper yesterday, the Patriote . . .” He stroked his mustache. “Well, you know how Calin feels about your design. There are others. And now that I’m no longer mayor, they feel the need to make their opinions known.”
Auguste stuck out his chin. “This isn’t the first time my designs have been rejected—or ridiculed, for that matter.”
“Apparently one of the ministers has bent the ear of a local journalist. They’ve written a review of your design.” His eyes were contrite, but his paunchy cheeks puffed in indignation.
“May I?” Auguste held out his hand.
“Are you certain that’s best?”
“I read all of my reviews. Since the piece is not yet finished, I find it curious the council should feel so strongly already.”
He scanned the text. They had missed the point of his design completely, just as Calin had. In fact, it could have been Calin himself who had submitted the article.
“Alors?” Dewavrin asked.
“Their faces show ‘sorrow, despair, and endless depression.’” Rodin smacked the offensive newspaper with his hand. The noise spooked a robin searching for crumbs near their feet. It fled to the cover of the trees.
“My figures display a pain si intense, si claire, the councilors squirm in their seats. They feel their own cowardice when they view the disquiet of a man marching to his death.”
Dewavrin nodded. “It was a backhanded approach to knocking you out of the running for the commission.”
Auguste continued reading. “‘This doesn’t represent what the citizens wish to see.’ And how would they know? No one has had the chance to see it! ‘The cube shape is “graceless”!’” He tore the article from the paper and stood. “No man is exalted when the spidery fingers of death grasp our souls and pull us to the underworld. These cowards cannot bear to face their own fate!”
“I apologize for their ignorance,” Omer said quietly.
Auguste met his gaze. “You need not apologize for them. I need a walk.”
He forged a path quickly through the grass. The bastards had used the media to oust him as a top contender.
Two could play at that game.
Chapter 17
Camille rolled the beaded fringe on her handbag between her thumb and forefinger. The baubles glittered each time the carriage passed beneath a streetlamp. She had borrowed Louise’s favorite handbag for the occasion—a writer’s salon across town. She couldn’t wait to introduce Paul to real writers. He had begun writing a play; no doubt he could use advice from experts.
She bumped her brother with her shoulder. “You’re quiet this evening. Aren’t you excited?”
“Do you know these people?” Paul’s voice cracked.
“You’re nervous.” She squeezed his hand in hers. “Stick close and I will introduce you to a few people. I don’t know many, but Giganti will meet us there.”
“Isn’t it uncouth to invite the hired help?” Paul asked.
“He isn’t just the ‘hired help’; he’s my friend. Besides, no one will know who he is. He’s likely to be in a back room with some other man.”
Paul cringed beside her. “You mean he is . . . he—”
“Is intimate with men? Yes.” A smile curved her lips. Her little Paul was growing up.
“I don’t know, Camille. Maybe I should sit in a bar and wait until you’re finished.”
She shot him a weary look. “Don’t you want to meet others who share your passion for writing?”
His brow furrowed. “I won’t have a thing to say to them.”
“You’re seventeen. You will figure it out.” She pinched his cheek. “It’s time to be a man.”
He swatted her hand away. “Then treat me like one.”
A balmy night breeze swirled around them in the hackney cab and Camille held her hat to her head. She felt a little guilty luring her brother to such a place. The last salon she had attended, Émile Zola had shown, followed by a pack of friends and fans. Everyone had gotten blistered on spirits and opium, herself included. She had even kissed a gentleman she didn’t know, though when she had closed her eyes, there was only one image, one sloping nose and pair of soft lips, one beard grazing her cheek that she’d imagined. She wrinkled her nose at the memory—the stranger had tasted of tobacco and Pernod, nothing at all like Rodin.
A nervous twitch worked its way into her hands. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. What if Rodin was there tonight? Her resolve not to be near him felt on shaky ground beneath dark skies and winking streetlamps, and plenty of booze that would be imbibed. She squeezed Paul’s knee with
all her might.
“Ouch! What did you do that for?” He rubbed the sore spot where her thumb had dug into his flesh.
Why had she? She didn’t know, really. Emotion raged through her like a fire at times and she could not contain it. The thought of seeing Auguste tonight . . .
The hackney stopped in front of a nondescript yet elegant home on the outskirts of the Latin Quarter.
At the door, a maid escorted them inside.
Paul gasped.
The hall gleamed in Arabian tiles; cerulean, ochre, and goldenrod flowed into the form of a large peacock on the wall. Orbs of brass and stained glass swung overhead, casting a rainbow glow about the room. Silk curtains swathed the front windows and laughter erupted in the room beyond.
“Brilliant!” Paul squeezed Camille’s hand. “I’m already glad you made me come.”
She laughed. “Let’s get a drink.”
They wound through the crowd to a table laden with glasses and a punch bowl filled with red liquid. Camille bent to sniff the concoction. Her nose burned from the sharp alcohol fumes. “The hair on my face is singed just from smelling that,” she said.
Paul laughed. “It looks frightful.”
Camille moved to the end of the table to take inventory of their choices. An array of glasses and bottles had been carefully laid out and a footman poised, prepared to pour.
“There is guignolet, a cherry liqueur which I adore, and some sort of brandy.” Camille pointed from one bottle to the other. “It’s probably Armagnac. And this”—she selected two pontarlier glasses from the final row—“is absinthe.”
“We will have absinthe,” she said to the footman.
“Très bien, mademoiselle.”
The footman poured a portion of absinthe into the bottom of the glasses. Next he placed a perforated spoon over the rim and set a sugar cube atop it. Paul watched intently as he poured cold water over the cube. The sugar dissolved slowly, turning the liquor in the glass to a murky green liquid. After a quick stir, the footman handed Camille her glass, then prepared Paul’s.