by Heather Webb
“That sounds dangerous.” She looped her arms around his neck.
His hands found her hips and rested there. “Anything new is dangerous. Dangerous to the sheltered world most live in.” He grinned down at her. “I have something to ask you.”
Camille’s stomach somersaulted and she looked away, out toward the horizon. Perhaps he was leaving Rose to be with her, only her. She suddenly felt like the raven soaring above the wheat fields, its black wings beating against the cheery blue sky.
Auguste put a thumb under her chin. “I’d like to rent a private space, a studio where we can work together without interruption. Our studio.”
She tumbled from her height. He did not want to leave Rose—she was nothing but a lovesick little girl, a student and a distraction to him.
Auguste read her expression and reached for her hand. “What is it?”
She gulped down her disappointment like a bite of overcooked fowl. “The rent of my own atelier is exorbitant and there is only Jessie and I left. I could not contribute to the expenses. I am going to decline the invitation.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “I would never expect you to share the expenses. I will afford the bills.” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip.
Camille’s disappointment turned to anger. She pulled free of him and dashed down the hill toward the château. He could find a way to drive the motorwagen back himself. Perhaps the merry footman would help.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To work!” she shouted, without turning. How glad she was to have brought her sketchbook and clay. She would drown her girlish notions in work.
After a month away and little contact with her parents, Camille dreaded their reaction, but she could not tell them the truth about her excursion. When the maid opened the apartment door, Camille smiled at Corinne, whose ivory nightcap was askew.
“Where have you been, mademoiselle?” the older woman demanded. “Your mother has worried herself into a tizzy! She’s been in bed for days.”
“And am I to believe that? Please, Corinne; I am not sentimental, nor am I stupid. Mother’s theatrics are an attempt to control me as she does the rest of you, and we both know it.” Camille pushed past her into the hall.
“Camille?” Papa’s voice drifted from the salon. The sound of steady footsteps echoed over the wood floors until he stood before her, blocking her from the staircase, where she longed to flee. He knew her well.
“Where in God’s name have you been this last month?” he said. “Your mother thought you had run off or lay dead in an alley somewhere.”
“You mean she hoped I were dead.”
Papa huffed and the curled ends of his mustache fluttered. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Please, Papa. If you’ll excuse me, I am tired.”
“No, I certainly will not excuse you.” He slid on his overcoat. “We are going for a walk.”
“Papa—”
“Now.” He retrieved his walking cane from the corner and threw open the door.
The glow of the past weeks evaporated and Camille sank into a foul humor. She dropped her valise and followed him, reluctant to listen to his admonitions. She was twenty-two years of age, a grown woman with a career. She needn’t tolerate childish reprimands.
“Humor an old man and let me escort you.” He clasped her gloved hand and placed it on his forearm.
“Very well.” She stared at the mauve glove on her father’s arm. Its painted detailing curled around an oval cutout in the leather that bared her skin. Auguste had bought them for her. He had insisted when she had soiled her others irrevocably with turpentine. How would she tell Papa she had spent her time away with her teacher and lover? He would be furious.
They walked on in silence—not the scolding she’d had in mind and yet somehow worse, leaving her with her thoughts and guilt, a sentiment she did not experience often. Somehow Papa had a way of eliciting it in her. They turned a corner at the end of the street and walked in the direction of the Seine. Clouds swallowed the stars; the dark sky mingled with Camille’s black humor and pressed down upon her.
The darkness would not envelop her. She would war against it.
When they reached the water’s edge, a chilly gust brought the scent of muddy river waters rushing over their earthen fairway. She tasted their churning under stone bridges and curling around each bend.
“I adore that scent,” she said. “Of clay along the riverbank.” And this evening, it seemed particularly pungent. In fact, every odor did: the scent of her new leather gloves and the mélange of Papa’s cologne with city smog and fall air.
“Are you going to tell me where you were the last few weeks? We were all worried. You sent one letter informing us that you were on holiday without location, dates of travel, or the name of your escort. What were we to think? It was cruel, never mind unacceptable.”
Perhaps she should have written more often, yet what to say? She moved closer to the water’s edge, where it lapped just over the pointed tips of her shoes. She lifted her skirts to clear the waterline. Any farther and she would walk straight into the opaque waters, wade up to her neck.
“I’m waiting.” His eyebrows knitted together.
“Monsieur Rodin’s atelier. I’ve been working late hours on Shakuntala and a couple of other designs. And then there are the pieces I must finish for Rodin. . . .” Papa’s mustache twitched. “I lied about the vacation,” she continued. “I did not want to worry you, though it seems that was unavoidable.”
Papa’s mouth curved down at the corners and he placed his hands on her shoulders. Camille’s stomach tied into knots. He knew.
“Tell me you’re not his mistress.”
She didn’t answer.
Papa shook her slightly. “Tell me!”
“Of course not, Papa.” She turned her head from him. “And you may as well know, I am considering moving into my own apartment.”
He sighed in defeat. “I thought you might eventually. I am against it—living on your own does not bode well for your reputation—but I will not stop you.” They watched a barge chug upstream, parting the waters as it pushed ahead. “I am relieved you aren’t sharing his bed. He is too old for you and will only use you. Men may carry on as such, but women cannot. Once branded his mistress, you will always be considered a whore.”
Camille cringed at the insinuation. “Do you take me for an ignorant schoolgirl?”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I am your father. I will always consider your welfare, whether you like what I have to say or not.”
“Yes, Papa.”
The ding of a ship’s bell announced a tugboat’s presence moments before it appeared on the rushing river. A clump of smoky clouds floated away and a sliver of moon carved a smile into the depressed night sky. Camille gazed at the stars, a fistful of glitter against black silk. The pinpoints of light pulsed brighter and brighter.
Camille snapped her head down, startled. Her senses seemed more acute tonight than usual. The smells, the stars . . . She must be imagining things.
Tea? Did Papa want tea? She turned to her father to reply. “Yes, I’d like a cup of tea.”
Confusion marked Papa’s features. “We did not speak of tea.”
What was the matter with him? He had put the very idea in her head. Hadn’t he? Frowning, she said, “You suggested it.”
Confusion shifted to concern and the lines around his eyes deepened. “Very well,” he said slowly. “There’s a place at the end of the block.” He led her up the riverbank and down the narrow expanse of street. “You are aware Monsieur Rodin has a wife?”
“She is his lover and hardly that, from what I hear.” Venom dripped from her tongue. She despised the person who came between her and Auguste.
“Camille!” The light of a nearby lamp reflected off of Papa’s s
pectacles. “Do not be a gossip—it will not help your relationship with your teacher. If he discovered that you say such things—”
“It isn’t I who gossip, Papa. I am merely repeating what I have heard the entire atelier discuss.”
“I hope you are not among them.”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to gossip.”
“Very good.”
As they continued their walk, Camille studied the pools of lamplight coating the worn stones. She’d never noticed how liquid light appeared, almost fluid and flowing from one spot to another. And the strange pulsing! She shook her head. She must be very fatigued after her trip.
They ducked into a brasserie. Once they had ordered, they sat in silence until two steaming mugs of tea and an apple tart arrived.
Camille’s mood improved as a waft of cinnamon filled her nose. “If I am to be working for a long spell again, I will inform you in advance.”
“Thank you. That is all I ask, chérie.”
Camille added milk and sugar to her tea, a custom she had learned from Jessie. She had not seen her friend in weeks. She suddenly wanted to kiss Jessie for guarding her secret.
“Louise is to be married. Your mother is quite happy about the match.” Papa sipped from his cup, then paused before adding, “She has asked me to find new suitors for you, as well.”
“You cannot be serious.” She put down her cup hastily, scraping the porcelain against its saucer. “You know how much my art means to me.” She wanted to spit at the idea of being courted by some unworthy imbecile who would steal her away from her passion. Plus, to think of Auguste’s despair at such a circumstance—her heart wrenched. “Mother hopes a man will ‘tame my wild ways.’ What she does not understand is that I will always be myself—a woman in love with sculpture. Marrying someone she chooses for me will only end in disaster.” She shoved her tea to the middle of the table. The cup wobbled in its saucer and toppled. Caramel-colored liquid spread across the table.
“Damn it, Camille!” Papa tossed a serviette over the mess and the liquid seeped into the flimsy fabric. “She wants you to be settled and loved like other women. That is all.”
The edges of her vision clouded with red. She took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper in public, especially with Papa. She could make him see her side.
Papa covered her hand with his own. “I would never ask you to marry if you weren’t ready. Your work will make history one day. I do believe that. It is a matter of finding the right critics to support you. Any man who loves you would feel the same. But you must consider the financial strain your lessons and studio have placed upon us.”
Camille exhaled a breath. So this was it; she had become a burden to her family, even to Papa.
“Monsieur Rodin pays me for my work in his atelier. I am one of his most skilled praticiens,” she said. “I can pay my own rent, if you will still assist me with supplies.”
He kissed her hand. “That would be a great help, not just to me, but in my argument with your mother.” He smiled for the first time that evening. “I read the paper while you were gone.”
She leaned back against the chair. “Did you see the news?”
“A bronze commission for Giganti. That piece has been so successful.” He forked the last bite of tart into his mouth. “But the write-up I read called you ‘an artist who mimics her teacher. One who lacks vision of her own.’”
Camille toyed with the tiny spoon in the sugar cube bowl. “I was furious. They treat me as if I don’t have my own style. Rodin has fashioned his works around my ideas and I have done the same with his—as it is in any atelier. Yet he receives all of the credit. But I am working on several of my own that I am not going to share.”
“You have a tremendous teacher, but I fear your career will be lost in his shadow.”
“I have wrestled with this dilemma, but for now, he helps me secure showings in the Salon, even a private commission on occasion. I am to meet one of his critic friends.”
She felt her father’s eyes on her as he took in every twitch, her restless fingertips, her loosely pinned chignon. He nodded in his knowing way. “Be careful. That is all. Fais attention.”
Camille laced her fingers together and flipped her wrists so her palms faced outward, a good stretch after working for hours on stone. The marble had proved more stubborn than the last block, which she’d carved into a set of feet for The Burghers of Calais. She bent over and reached toward the ground, an impolite gesture in the presence of so many men. Luckily most rules of society were suspended within the walls of an artist’s studio. With so many beautiful nude men and women moving about the premises, no one even looked up from their task.
Camille straightened once more and placed her hands on her hips. Auguste did not seem as preoccupied with the Burghers as before, not since the council had granted him the commission. His current obsession appeared to be the Gates, once more, and a commission of Victor Hugo, though rather than a mere bust for his personal collection, this Hugo would be a national monument placed in the Panthéon.
What must it be like to have so many opportunities? Camille kicked her heavy skirts, damp with sweat and water, and plopped down in a nearby chair. She sighed heavily.
“Why don’t you apply, mademoiselle?” a fellow sculptor named Maurice asked. He scrubbed a piece of marble with a wire brush to prepare it for carving. “For a permit to wear trousers, I mean.”
“And do all the paperwork with the Prefecture of Police? I would prefer to scratch out my eyes.” She stifled a yawn. “Though perhaps I may steal a pair of my brother’s pants.”
Maurice laughed. “Now you’re thinking.” He rolled his sleeves over his forearms to his elbows.
Thinking? She’d had trouble focusing lately. After an argument with Paul, she had been too distracted. Her brother did not like her spending so much time away from home. He felt abandoned by her, his best friend. Though she assured him she loved him above all others, she knew she could not lie and promise him she would remain in the family home. She would move, if for no other reason than to solidify her independence.
To worsen matters, Giganti had promised to return to work after a midday repose last night, but had never shown. Shakuntala was at a standstill. She rubbed her forefinger and thumb together and focused her gaze on Maurice’s hands while he worked. Giganti never went back on his word. Something seemed amiss.
“It should be ready now,” the sculptor said to himself.
What if Giganti didn’t show again today? Camille began to pace, still rubbing her fingers together. Shakuntala was her best work to date. Auguste and his critic friend had heaped praise upon it at first sight, even in its unfinished form. This could be the one—the one that made the art world stand up and take notice. She just had a feeling about it. Giganti wouldn’t leave her stranded in the middle of a piece, would he? She grunted in frustration, then kicked a half-empty pail of dirty water. The bucket clattered against the floor, and lumps of half-dissolved clay splattered in every direction.
A man building an armature paused in his hammering. Another looked up from a plaster bust. One of the new female students, with ginger curls and heart-shaped lips, Elise Chevalier, glanced in Camille’s direction. Their gazes met. The young woman was wealthy and sculpted as a hobby. She had joined the atelier just to say she worked with Master Rodin.
Camille’s jealousy seethed. Why must Auguste take on admiring female students who did nothing but bat their eyelashes? There were plenty of real artists seeking his instruction. Though things had been wonderful, she had let him in at last and it terrified her. The thought of his eye wandering elsewhere left her cold.
She picked up a pail and tossed it under a worktable. A metallic tang flooded her mouth, the familiar taste that came when—
“What’s gotten into you?” Maurice asked. “You’re making an awful racket and huffin
g about today.”
“What’s it to you?” she snapped. Tension prickled along her aching shoulders and neck. Paul, Giganti, and now this silly woman—it was all too much. She needed fresh air.
“No need to be nasty,” the sculptor said.
The skin on his face blended, then each hue stood apart in a multicolor palette: peach, pink, beige, the brown and silver of his hair, and a variation of every shade therein. Confusion muddled Camille’s senses. She glanced from one artist to another. Each of their faces shifted from solid structures to nebulous shapes, painted with an array of colors. She shook her head to clear the odd sensation.
You are a thief. You copy Auguste’s work. You are nothing and they know it.
The Voice, the evil one that mocked her—it had come once before, when Auguste had first kissed her. Her head swiveled this way and that in a panic to locate its source. But no one spoke to her. She blinked rapidly to rectify the blurred faces, the carnival of colors—to no avail.
Camille fetched her umbrella from the rack, ripped open the door with trembling hands, and rushed toward home.
Rainwater speckled the windowpane, blurring the silhouette of a doe munching a mouthful of acorns. Auguste had avoided the atelier at the Rue de l’Université the past two weeks—too many people demanded his time and there was too much noise. He huddled instead in his refuge, a stable-turned-studio on the Rue Saint-Jacques. He could not deny the truth—he also hid away from wagging tongues. There would be a national monument commissioned for Victor Hugo, and Jules Dalou was in the running—against him. He must win, if for no other reason than to prove to Jules he was the better artist. His old friend’s constant disparagement made him incensed each time he thought of it.
The doe perked its ears, suddenly alert to an intruder, and dashed into the cover of tangerine and gold leaves, the only line of trees in the small park facing his studio. Auguste’s eyes blurred until he saw a vision of a man holding a woman close while a demon crouched, prepared to drag her through the gates of hell. He sketched furiously in the diminished light, adding to the dozens of drawings he had completed that morning. Camille’s proclamations of love, her open affection and ravenous lovemaking had torn open a seam and a flood of creativity poured from his fingertips. Dieu, the woman filled his heart to bursting. He had never thought it possible.