by Heather Webb
“You know I prefer brandy or beer,” Paul said.
Camille sipped from her pontarlier glass. “Just try it.”
“I don’t trust you. Your eyes are full of mischief.”
“Don’t be such a girl,” she said.
He glared at her and took a drink. He sputtered on the burning liquid.
“Push through the burn and your limbs will tingle. It’s a delicious feeling.”
He swigged from the glass again. “It tastes like a meadow.”
She smiled. “It’s floral, yes. Shall we?” She linked her arm through his and led him around the room.
Camille did not recognize a single person, but the alcohol emboldened her and she interrupted more than one conversation. She paused at the refreshment table to have her glass refilled.
“Excuse me, but did you say your name is Mademoiselle Claudel?” a Monsieur Jules Dalou asked. “You are Rodin’s student?”
“Yes,” she said, taking in his sunken cheeks and the challenge in his eyes.
The man studied her with interest and leaned closer, his hot breath on her cheek. “I am a sculptor as well. An old friend of Auguste’s. If you should find yourself in want of more reliable instruction . . .” His eyes fell upon her chest.
Camille shuddered inwardly at his lecherous look, yet met his gaze directly. “Monsieur Rodin is a fine tutor and, in truth, a friend. Please respect him in my presence.”
Monsieur Dalou gave her a sickly smile that did not touch his eyes. “He is my friend as well. I’ve known him for years.”
“It shows,” she said, her tone curt.
“If you will excuse us,” Paul said, leading her away.
“The nerve of that man!” she said. He had no interest in helping her unless she bedded him. If she did not know better, she would think him out for revenge against Auguste.
The remainder of the evening Camille wove through the crowd, watching for the face that was most dear. As the hours clicked by, she felt a mingled sense of relief and frustration—Rodin had not come. She plucked a tin of sugared lemon drops from the refreshment table. She would soothe her disappointment with sweets. It was best he had not come, at any rate. She had come to enjoy herself, not to spend her time trying to ignore him.
The voices grew louder and more animated with the passing of each hour. After finishing her absinthe, Camille coaxed Paul through a black silk drape used as a makeshift door to a room off the salon. A single lantern burned, rendering most of the room in shadow. A haze of smoke and the sweet flowery scent of opium permeated the small space. A man with whiskers and a loosened cravat puffed from a bamboo pipe coated with silver. Two couples petted each other openly in the far corners of the room, and a gentleman read a poem aloud from a pocket notebook. Everyone lounged on an array of silk pillows on the floor.
Camille watched Paul’s face with delight. He stared through hooded lids and his mouth lay open, his fourth glass of absinthe cradled in his right hand. She giggled. It was good for him, the relaxation. He spent far too much time fussing over his marks in school and his obsessive propriety. Yet judging by his stagger, she would need to get him home soon.
“I’ve never seen so many hedonists in my life!” Paul said loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Wait until I tell Marc.”
Camille smothered a laugh. Lovers on display, an opium den and its blackened souls therein—his new devout friend would lap up the lurid details. She guessed Marc was in love with Paul, but far too pious to act upon it. And a good thing; Paul fawned over their neighbor Cécile, though he tried to hide it.
Paul cupped a hand over his mouth and attempted a whisper. “Does that man have his hand down her dress?”
The poet paused in his reading to scowl at the offending party.
Paul stumbled forward and slammed his head on a beam jutting down from the low ceiling. “Damn!” Laughter floated through the room.
A gentleman sprawled across a vermillion pillow untangled himself from his position on the floor, jumped to his feet, and approached. A familiar face framed with dark curling hair emerged through the smoky haze.
“Camille! I thought you hadn’t come.” Giganti kissed her cheeks. “And you must be Paul?”
“Who are you?” Paul slurred his words.
Camille took the empty pontarlier glass from Paul’s hand. “We were just leaving.”
“No, no. Let’s stay.” Paul pitched forward. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. “I want another drink.”
Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “Like hell. I don’t need you vomiting on me on the ride home.”
“I’ll escort you.” Giganti tilted his head in Paul’s direction. “You may need some assistance.”
“You’re sure? I hate to take you away from a good party.”
“I prefer your company any day.” Giganti kissed her cheek.
Paul pushed aside the fabric and stumbled into the main room. They buffered him on either side and half-dragged him through the crowd.
“Let go of me!” He struggled against Camille’s grip. “I can walk!”
A chorus of laughter followed them. At last they reached the door and thrust him into the street. Giganti jogged to the end of the block and whistled at a line of hackney cabs parked outside a bustling dance hall. One pulled from the line and he jumped inside. When it stopped, Giganti helped Paul into a seat.
Camille threw her arm around her brother. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow and all color drained from his face.
“Allons-y and hurry!” Giganti called to the driver.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have let him drink so much in the first place. And the cigar didn’t help. But I couldn’t resist. He needed to enjoy himself.”
Paul groaned. “My head is spinning.”
“Deep breaths, man,” Giganti said. “Don’t lose it here.”
“If you cons vomit in my cab, you’ll pay triple!” the driver called over his shoulder. He snapped the reins, urging the horses to go faster.
The cart jerked forward and Paul fell into Camille, then slumped against her arm. She patted his hair. A little nap would take the edge off.
Giganti chuckled.
Twenty minutes later, they thundered down the Boulevard de Port-Royal. As the house drew nearer, Camille noted the darkened windows. No one had waited up for them and she was glad for it.
She shook Paul, but he didn’t stir. “Paul! We’re home!” She shook him once more.
“He’s out,” Giganti said.
“Whoa.” The driver slowed the horses and the carriage came to a halt. “Now, get out!” He leered at them, grease glistening on his face and hair, even in the dull lamplight. He probably hadn’t bathed in weeks.
“With pleasure!” Camille sneered. The man didn’t have to be such an ingrate.
They hauled Paul’s leaden body out of the cab. Just as they reached the front door, something moved in the dark to their left. Camille’s gaze darted to a nearby doorway. She gripped Paul’s arm tighter. Thieves did not usually loiter on this end of the street, but she knew they could be anywhere.
“Who’s there?” Giganti said.
A gentleman stepped out of the shadows. A familiar set of shoulders, a beret atop a serious face with flowing beard appeared.
Camille’s stomach dropped and her heart thudded in her ears.
Rodin waited for her in the dark.
Chapter 18
Auguste berated himself for pursuing Camille. He should have waited until Monday at the atelier to speak with her about the Burghers, but he wasn’t certain she would be there. He hadn’t seen her in the three weeks since he had returned from Calais. Such an idiot he was—she had been out all evening with Giganti. A twinge of pain twisted in his stomach. The two of them grew closer as she distanced herself from him. He might wish for her comfort
ing words about the degrading article, but she did not need his comfort for anything—or him. Damn fool.
Swallowing his pride, Auguste walked toward them. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I wanted to discuss a few things with Mademoiselle Claudel, but I should have waited until next week. . . . I’ve been so consumed with this project. You understand that more than most, mademoiselle. But I can see you are occupied. I will go.” He clapped his mouth closed, silently scolding himself once more for rambling.
Paul moaned and leaned his head atop Camille’s.
Auguste raised an eyebrow. “Is he hurt? Do you need assistance?”
“I think we can manage, but can you wait for a moment?” Mademoiselle Claudel said. “Let me just bring Paul inside.” She and Giganti dragged her brother into the apartment building and up the stairs.
Auguste clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the moon. Stars speckled the sky like flecks of quartz in a slab of black granite. He wanted to know her thoughts on his recent version of the Burghers, and about the article in the Patriote, the Calais newspaper. He had written a rebuttal, point by point, to the offending review. As he had hoped, his supporters rallied to his aid quickly and the commission of the Burghers was his. Soon, he would receive the first advance payment. Yet, he still wished for her opinion on his piece. If that many had opposed his design, perhaps she could see improvements that he could not.
Auguste kicked a pebble in the street. He could not lie to himself. He needed to see her, beyond the piece, to persuade her not to run from him. He could behave himself—he wanted her near, even if he could not have her.
An ache throbbed inside him. God, how he wanted her.
The door swept open and Camille walked toward him. Tendrils of hair blew softly across her face and neck, and her gown’s low neckline hugged the gentle slope of her breasts. The bare skin of her shoulders glowed pearly in the moonlight.
Giganti was on her heel. Rodin swallowed his desire.
“Monsieur Rodin, bonsoir,” Giganti said.
“Giganti.” Auguste tipped his hat.
The model turned to Camille and winked. “And goodnight to you, mon amie.”
Rodin did not miss the exchange. They had their own secret, perhaps even at his expense. Putain, he swore under his breath. He wanted to flee and bury himself in his sketches. He looked down at his thick hands, swollen from the exertion of his day’s work. Camille clearly wanted nothing to do with him. If only he could banish her from his mind.
For a moment, Camille watched Giganti walk briskly away, before turning to him with questioning eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, “for agreeing to see me. I wanted to show you my new design of the Burghers, and—”
“Shall we go to your studio?” she asked. Something smoldered in her curved mouth and dark gaze.
He dared not hope. She had made it clear he should not cross the boundary between them. Yet his pulse accelerated.
“It’s rather late,” he said. “Are you certain?”
“Quite.” Her smile widened.
They rode the distance by hackney cab in silence. Auguste clenched his fists as tension sparked between them in the dark. He must control himself, or he would drive her away.
When they reached the atelier, he unlocked the door and then lit several lanterns. “I have changed the structure,” he began, “to emphasize the burghers’ pain and their pride.” He removed the sculpture’s cloth covering.
Camille examined the maquette, now a midsize version of what the final piece would be. Auguste watched her expression for a sign.
A lock of hair sprang from a pin and floated down her back. His fingers ached to remove the remaining pins, fill his hands with her hair, and run his lips over the sensitive skin on her neck.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Each face and form tells a story. Their anguish is exquisite.”
As was his own. Auguste crossed his arms over his chest to keep his hands from reaching for her. “This is precisely what I told Monsieur Dewavrin in Calais, but the ministers disagree. They find the anguish despicable.”
She ran her finger along the base of the figure. “It’s about as far from despicable as can be.” She locked him in her gaze. “It pulses with life and tormented beauty.”
Auguste nodded, his pulse quickening once more.
“They do not understand you. Not as I do.” Camille moved closer, never removing her eyes from the maquette, until her scent of amber enveloped him.
“That is true.” His voice came deep, unsettled.
The brass clock on the desktop dinged on the other side of his office door. One o’clock, the dead of night.
Camille looked up once more and her blue eyes darkened. She stepped closer.
In a swift instant, he gathered her in his arms. She surrendered her restraint and crushed herself against him. He held her tighter as if she might slip away. He must possess her. She was his, this wild, impassioned creature. He would make her his.
Camille wrenched from him suddenly.
“Oh, mon amour.” A plea, and a confession.
Her eyes softened and she wrapped her arms about his middle, laying her face against his heart. It skipped in his chest. Could she hear it call for her?
“Mademoiselle—” he began.
“Camille,” she said, her voice feather soft.
“Camille,” he sighed. “I—”
“Shh.” She put her finger to his lips and began to unfasten the buttons of his jacket, one by one. Next, his vest.
Auguste traced a shaking finger over the supple skin of her breasts, the roundness of her shoulders. This time, it was she who moaned, the only invitation he needed. He released her from the clothing that bound her. He would savor this delicacy of a woman, her stark contrasts of cold and heat, of light and dark, her sudden rage and melodious laugh. He would worship at her altar as Mother Nature intended, as she deserved. He would fill her.
In moments, she stood naked. Her porcelain skin glowed like marble in moonlight.
“My darling, beautiful Camille.”
She took his hand and kissed it softly, then guided it to her breast.
With his hands he memorized the curves of her body, her silky skin, the bulge of muscle or bone, the sweep of hair.
She writhed under his touch. “Auguste, please,” Camille sighed. “I can’t bear it.”
The sound of his name on her lips set his blood to boiling. She belonged to him. At last he pushed himself inside her. She gasped. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered, then brushed his lips over her cheekbone and temple. He knew he must be gentle.
“Do it again,” she said, voice thick with longing, and clasped her arms around his neck.
They made love and lay entwined together, the hours dissolving too quickly.
After a spell of hazy contentment, Auguste said, “How long I have dreamed of you. We have found each other, at last.”
“And what are we to do now?” she whispered.
“Create, mon amour, together. Stun the world with our art.”
“Together.” Her lips stretched into a smile, her laughing eyes pools of agate.
He kissed her deeply, until emotion welled from the pit of his being and filled every part of him—intoxication of the most dangerous kind. She curled next to him and he wrapped around her, relishing her warmth.
When first light peeked eagerly through the windows, Camille stood and dressed. He watched her, took in the planes of her body, her sinuous movement.
Auguste sat up with a start. A lover, a kiss. His mind whirred despite his fatigue and his hands itched to draw her portrait.
Camille turned to him, a faint smile hidden in the apples of her cheeks, then slipped from the room without a word.
Camille hunched over a pile of sketches while Jessie swept loose chips of plast
er, clay, and sawdust into a pile. The sky had gone black and a night breeze stirred from the street and streamed through the open window. She could not stop thinking of Auguste—his lips, his skin on hers. She sighed and pushed aside another drawing of Shakuntala. She had the figure’s stance wrong. The woman should rest her head on her lover in quiet surrender and forgiveness.
A flash of Auguste’s face hovering above hers, his ecstasy, filled her with longing. She had made love to him twice more, each time leaving him behind, reaching for her. She offered her body to him for her own needs, not to be his mistress or his pawn. He kept a woman at home for that, or so she told herself.
The first inkling of guilt swirled in her stomach. But they were not married and Auguste had yet to mention Rose Beuret. She could not be so important.
The soft scratching of straw against wood floor and the sway of Jessie’s skirt entranced her. Soon Camille’s focus blurred and she heard his voice in her ear. Mon amour, the beautiful phrases he whispered to her, the secrets that were all theirs.
“What are you thinking about?” Jessie asked. She bent to scoop debris into a rusty dustpan.
Camille’s reverie rippled and faded. “Rien de tout.”
“It isn’t ‘nothing.’ You have had that look of enchantment about you for two weeks at least. It is him, isn’t it?”
One of two lanterns guttered and went out. Smoke curled through the top of the glass bulb toward the ceiling.
“Rats.” Camille carried one of the remaining lanterns to her desk. “I’ve got at least another hour to do and we need more gas.”
“You cannot be serious.” Jessie planted one hand on her hip. “You’ve been working for fifteen hours.”
Camille studied Jessie’s face. Her thick curls sagged, her mouth turned down at the corners. Jessie needed sleep, possibly a vacation. Her last three pieces had been rejected by the Salon and now her disenchantment colored her usual bright humor a dull shade of gray.
“I need to get this sketch right and I’m not going to bed until I do.”
Jessie recommenced her sweeping. “What were you thinking just now? Do not tell me it is Shakuntala.”