Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

Hope dawned on his features. “You think of me?” He put out a hand instinctively to touch her.

  She jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch me.”

  Jessie stopped playing abruptly.

  He reached for her once more. “Camille—”

  “Please, go,” she said. Her reason warred with her heart and she needed to escape, to untangle her confusion. She could not think in his presence. “If you won’t leave, I’ll stay locked in my room.”

  Pain filled Auguste’s eyes, and Camille felt as if she had been stabbed. To hurt him made her throb with regret.

  Jessie glared at Camille and rushed to Auguste’s side. “Monsieur Rodin, my most ardent apologies.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for the delicious meal. I’m going to retire for the evening. And if you would call a carriage for me at first light, I would be very grateful.”

  “Of course.” Monsieur Lipscomb extended his hand and shook Rodin’s vigorously. “If there is anything else I can get for you, please ask.”

  Auguste nodded and left the room, shoulders sagging.

  Camille had gotten what she wanted, yet her insides collapsed.

  The train to Paris gained momentum as it pulled away from the Calais station, engines hissing and black smoke billowing over the platform in clouds of soot. A thin layer of grit blew in the open window and coated the floor, seats, and passengers. Rodin dusted off his trousers and leaned his head against the seat. He’d made an ass of himself chasing Camille to England. She had seen through his facade of visiting Gustave in London. She always saw through him.

  “Merde!” he mumbled aloud. He bit his knuckle to keep from cursing more.

  A woman seated in his car startled and gave him a look of disdain. She looked out the smudged windowpane. Her cerulean hat and expensive dress hinted at extreme wealth, femininity, and well-bred manners—the exact opposite of the precious woman he adored. How could he make Camille believe she could trust him? Yet there was Rose. . . . And he could not turn his back on her. It would not be honorable.

  As the train increased its speed, Rodin concentrated on its rocking sensation beneath him. Octave Mirbeau, friend and critic, had invited him to show his work at Georges Petit’s gallery in October with Renoir and others. Perhaps this salon would be the one—the one to bring him true recognition, and not the negative kind. He wanted her to be there, to support him and witness his triumph. At this moment, that was nothing but a dream.

  Auguste squeezed his eyes closed. The image of Camille’s skin beneath his hands, her rosy nipple in his mouth, struck him immediately. He shook his head. He had to get a grip on himself, clear his head for the upcoming exhibition. Yet he could not. The vision shimmered in his mind once more: He kneeled before her naked form in adulation, idolizing her all-consuming beauty.

  He shot up in his seat and fished cigarette papers out of his pocket. Quickly he drew a woman seated on a pedestal and a man on his knees, his head resting against her naked abdomen in surrender. It was he, surrendered at her feet, his Eternal Idol.

  Black storm clouds glared at one another, as if readying for a brawl. Wind swept over Camille and gathered under her skirts, making the lower half of her body appear bulbous. Auguste had really gone. She had behaved like a child, scolded him, and he’d left. She still could not believe it, and it had been weeks ago. She wrapped her arms about herself. The rain soaked her through, washed away her tempestuous behavior and anger. She must learn to hold her noxious tongue.

  She sauntered down the gravel lane and through the fragrant bushes nestling against the stone cottage where she slept. The charming abode sat at the edge of a rocky cliff, not more than a meter from the sea. The Isle of Wight was her favorite of all the places she’d visited in England. Paul adored it as well and had gone fishing with Monsieur Lipscomb every day. Her brother found inspiration in the quiet mornings for writing and dreaming. The corners of her lips turned up in a faint smile. The men had yet to catch a fish the entire visit.

  A wave arced over the slate waters and broke on the stone at the edge of the property. One violent tempest and the cottage floor would be engulfed. She relished the wild beauty of the sea, the push and pull of currents, and the whirling eddies of cold water that carved out divots in the sand. Water was the most powerful of all, breaking down all in its path, even if slowly; a true force. She lowered herself to the short drop-off to the sea, removed her boots, and dangled her legs over the surf. Auguste was an unavoidable force. Warring against her emotions grew tedious and tiring. Her limbs quivered when he was near; her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. But what of Rose Beuret? The subject had remained taboo. Perhaps it should remain that way for now. Dieu, she missed him.

  A gust of wind sent a spray of saltwater on her face, a dose of cold reality on this vacation from her life. It was time to go home.

  Midnight sky consumed the last rays of weary light, and the single flickering lamp became inadequate in the cavernous room. Auguste had scrubbed and scoured three stones, kneaded a rope of clay, and cleaned all of his tools—menial tasks to occupy his hands. Now they itched to mold something, anything, but he couldn’t focus, and he couldn’t see a damn thing. He dropped his maquette and heaved a sigh. “We’re finished here.”

  Giganti relaxed from his twisted pose and stretched. He ran a hand through his tumbled curls and dressed quickly.

  Auguste was too old for Camille and he was her teacher. What was he thinking? He had looming deadlines, a show to prepare for—no time for such folly, and yet . . . He crossed the studio and stood beneath the skeleton of his Gates of Hell. A tormented male reached for a woman twisting away from him, lust and fear marking her features. He traced the figures with his fingertip.

  “Veux-tu fumer?” Giganti placed a pinch of tobacco on a square of hemp paper and rolled it into a cylinder.

  “No.” Rodin shook his head. He didn’t want to smoke; he didn’t want to eat; he didn’t want to do anything. He kicked a hunk of dried plaster.

  “Everything all right?” Giganti asked, dragging on his cigarette.

  Auguste grunted and bent to pick up a cloth that had slipped off a nearby figure. “Well enough.”

  “You don’t seem yourself, if I may say so. Whatever it is, I hope it passes.”

  Auguste didn’t know if it would pass. He’d never been so consumed, outside of work. He didn’t even believe in love, yet he felt as if he were burning alive. He stared at Giganti. The model would be a better match for Camille. He was younger, less encumbered by his work. Hell, he didn’t have a woman at home, waiting for him to return every night.

  A tap on the door startled them, a fumble of the latch, and then it opened. Camille entered without a bonnet or overcoat, and her dress was speckled with raindrops.

  Auguste’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since his visit to Peterborough and here she was, fresh, vibrant, and sprinkled with fall rain.

  “Camille! Are you cold?” Giganti crossed the room and rubbed her arms. “I’m so glad to have you back!”

  She pulled away from the model’s touch and turned her eyes on Rodin. “I’ve come to see Auguste.”

  Chapter 21

  Camille could not wait another minute to see Auguste. She had arrived home from the train station an hour before and raced to the studio. Her heart battered her rib cage.

  And now, Auguste did not move a muscle. He seemed uncertain how to approach her. “Mademoiselle Claudel, you came to see me?”

  Giganti raised an eyebrow and looked from one to the other. He ducked his head to hide his expression and slipped on his coat. “Molto bene. I will be on my way.”

  When Giganti had gone, Camille said, “I need to know more about Rose Beuret.”

  Auguste’s face fell. “She is the mother of my son and a longtime friend.”

  “She lives with you.”

  “Yes.” />
  “And you love her?” Camille asked, voice tremulous.

  “In a way. But we have not been intimate for some time. Our relationship has changed into something different over the years.”

  Relief flooded her heart. “Monsieur Rodin,” she whispered, voice husky, “fetch your charcoal.” There would be no more running, only surrender. This force between them consumed her will until there was nothing left but him. Only him. She must show him how much he affected her.

  Camille unpinned her damp hair and shook it free. Water droplets rained about her shoulders. She untied the sash at her waist and let it flutter to the ground, then began to unfasten her buttons, one by one.

  Auguste’s eyes grew round and he scrambled to his desk.

  She laughed at his enthusiasm and kicked off her heels. He still wanted her. A burst of joy erupted in her heart. She climbed onto the pedestal and contorted her body into a pose, her creamy skin a moon in the black cavern of the studio rooms.

  Auguste raced back, his face alight and eager to devour her offering. He reached out to touch her.

  She laughed again. “Later, my love. Take what I have to give you first.”

  He stilled for a moment. “Mon coeur,” he whispered.

  Charcoal whisked over paper, shaping the small of her back, the peak of her breasts, and her soft abdomen. He finished one page and turned to the next. His cheeks grew ruddy in his excitement.

  “Do I make a fitting model?” she asked.

  His face turned serious. “There could be no other after you.”

  Auguste’s hands moved swiftly, back and forth like a bow on violin strings, the soothing sound of hand on page, the soft scrape of charcoal. The thud of her heart. Camille closed her eyes and drifted. A menagerie of images flowed from one to another, made of smoke and blurred by a warm breeze. The rustle of fabric, a flowing skirt. Two lovers. The image danced on the edge of her consciousness. Soon, she would need her own charcoal.

  A callused hand stroked her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open to thick, strong fingers stained red from terra-cotta clay with chunks of burnt orange under the fingernails.

  She sat up, took his hand in hers, and kissed each fingertip, the pillow of her lips pressed gently against them. His delicious adoration, his strength, wrapped her in a cocoon, blanketing the last of her doubts.

  “I tried to banish you from my heart but cannot.” Camille threaded her hands in his hair. “You have taken hold of me, Auguste.”

  “And you have changed me. I am on my knees before you.”

  “Je t’aime,” she whispered.

  He pressed his lips to hers and took her in his arms.

  “Come!” Auguste said, as he led Camille through a series of rooms furnished with beautiful antiques, paneling with gold-painted detailing, and plush silk rugs from the Orient. Camille had even removed her shoes and stockings that morning to feel the rugs’ softness between her toes.

  “What is all the excitement?” She followed him through the front door and onto the drive. “You spirit me away from the city, but I have work to do,” she teased. She was thrilled Auguste had asked her to vacation with him in a château in Touraine, regardless of the looming submission date for the coming Salon. The very thought of it brought anxiety that settled along the muscles near her spine.

  “We’ll only be here a few weeks,” he said, his voice warm and ebullient.

  The country agreed with Auguste. She noted his beaming face, the chuckle that came without cause. Sunshine poured over his frame, making his beige coat appear as if dipped in golden honey, and his copper beard, threaded with wisps of silver, shimmered in the light. A cloud of insects buzzed about his head and he waved a hand to dispel them. She caught his hand in hers and kissed his palm.

  In a swift motion, he pulled her close, his mouth slanting over hers and taking her breath away. How Camille loved this man. She kissed him hard and then bit his lip. Startled, he pulled back. “What was that for?”

  “Sometimes I want to eat you up.” She cackled and nipped the end of his nose.

  “Little wench!” He twirled her round and round, her skirts buoyed by the bubble of air beneath them. Camille squealed as her head dizzied and her view blurred.

  The crunch of footsteps on gravel interrupted their gaiety. Auguste steadied her on her feet.

  A footman who lived on the property emerged from the house. “Bonjour, mademoiselle, monsieur. Master Gerard instructed me to be at the ready for your ride. Would you like my assistance?” His voice was brittle, as if he might crumble and blow away in the autumn wind.

  “Please,” Auguste said.

  Camille smirked at the footman’s rigid demeanor, his perfectly pressed suit jacket. He could use some roughing up, or perhaps a tumble in the hay with a maid.

  “Right this way.” The footman showed them to an outbuilding, where he heaved open a sliding metal door.

  Camille looked at Auguste with a questioning glance. “What is this ride we are taking?”

  He smiled. “I’ve been told it’s a marvel.”

  “So it is,” the footman replied, pinching his lips. His eyes raked Camille’s form, his disdain clear.

  She gave the footman a pointed look. He clearly had better things to do, but he could at least be polite. Then it occurred to her—he didn’t approve of her relationship with Auguste. He sat in judgment over her sharing a room with a much older man, especially as they were unmarried. She endeavored to hold her sharp tongue. No sense in ruining a perfect afternoon.

  The footman yanked the coverlet from the mystery item and a cloud of dust swirled in the air. Camille coughed as the particles clogged her throat and tickled her nose. “What on earth is that thing?” It appeared to be a motorized bicycle.

  Auguste squeezed one of the narrow wheels. “It’s the newly invented vehicle you spoke of, powered by steam and straight from Prussia, though they call it the Benz Motorwagen.”

  Camille’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you manage this?”

  “The owner is a friend of mine,” Auguste said. “He has a connection with the inventor. Gerard is there now, in fact. I told him my lady had marveled over the invention and he insisted we take it for a ride.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Auguste hoisted himself onto the small cushioned seat above two large rear wheels. Behind the seat, a series of cylinders and pulleys were fastened atop a wood box. Near the footrest, a long thin pole with a winding crank jutted upward from the floorboard.

  Camille looked on in amazement.

  “You turn this dial to steer.” The footman gestured to each part. “And I will crank this wheel. The wheel clicks this dial to begin the process of heating the reservoir of water. As the water heats, it creates compression for the steam.” Excitement crept into the footman’s voice. He had heard the instructions many times, that was certain, but still found fascination with the machine.

  “How do you stop it?” Camille asked.

  “With this lever.” He indicated a rod with a black knob at the end.

  “Shall we ride, Camille? There is enough space for two.” He patted the seat beside him. “We’ll ride to the big oak that marks the bend in the road.” He pointed to a massive tree dressed in chocolate-colored leaves.

  “Let’s hope this thing doesn’t explode.” She gathered her skirt in one hand and allowed the footman to assist her into the seat. She watched him crank the wheel attached to a pulley. After several turns, the small engine awakened with a pop, hiss, and a shallow stream of steam. Auguste cheered and swung his beret around in the air. Camille laughed at his enthusiasm and they took off, bumping over the rutted dirt road.

  The vehicle gained speed. “How fast does this thing go?” she asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea!” He shouted over the noise of the steam engine.

 
They bounced along under the autumn sky, until they reached the tree. Auguste pulled the break and the vehicle came to a stop. “Incroyable!” He turned in his seat and waved at the footman, who stood in the drive. The unhappy man returned a curt wave.

  Camille slapped Auguste’s knee. “It goes faster than I expected! Can you get it started again? It’s my turn to drive.”

  “Are you certain that’s wise?” he asked.

  She shoved him playfully. “Don’t play the misogynist with me. Of course I’m certain.”

  “Very well, my headstrong girl.” He kissed her cheek and jumped to the ground, the thump of his feet against the dirt road sending a whoosh of dust into the air.

  Camille scooted closer to the steering crank and brake rod. She grinned. Paul would just die for the chance to drive this thing. She couldn’t wait to tell him she had.

  Auguste turned the wheel and once again the pish-pish of steam and the clap of lids opening and closing surrounded them. “Off you go!” he shouted.

  Camille screeched when the motorwagen lurched forward. As she gained speed, rolling countryside streaked by, a painter’s palette of color in the blurred periphery of her vision. Cool wind blasted against her face and washed over her person; a cleansing air, dispelling the anxiety she had carried with her from Paris. If she held out her arms, perhaps she would fly.

  After another hundred meters, Camille stopped the car and dismounted. She looked back toward the now-distant château. The footman had moved from his statuesque position at the end of the drive and was now a black ant on the front steps.

  Auguste strolled up the lane, hands crossed behind his back, in the midst of fields of tilled wheat. A current of golden light eddied around him. He was the sun—her guide in the wilderness. Camille skipped down the lane toward him, her heart light.

  Auguste laughed as she approached. “Amusing, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how much the damned thing cost Gerard, but perhaps one day there will be more of them. Imagine the roads full of motorwagens!”