by Heather Webb
“You must understand it is a man’s profession,” he said. “Perhaps you should channel your talents elsewhere.”
Rage surged through Camille’s limbs and set her temples to pounding. She threw down her chisel and it clinked against a pile of tools on the tabletop. “And this is precisely why I am not supportive of your union, Jessie.” She whisked a cloth over her piece and tossed her smock over the chair. “And you, sir, are not to return to this studio.”
She bolted for the door.
Auguste had come through as promised; he had found a suitable replacement for Giganti within days. To Camille’s relief, she finished Shakuntala in time for the Salon and now circulated among the other artists and guests. Energy rolled off her skin—the compliments for her work had come one after another all evening. With each additional nod of approval, she grew more excited, and by evening’s end, she wanted to dance. This was it! She had finally created something noteworthy, and the continual praise reflected it.
“You are beaming.” Auguste leaned in closer. “And delectable in your gown. I am counting the minutes until we may leave.”
Camille brushed her lips over his cheek. They grew bolder in displaying their affection for one another, despite her better judgment. Tonight, she did not care. She had worked too hard to come to this point, and now she couldn’t contain her joy.
Mathias Morhardt crossed the room to join them, fresh wineglasses in hand. “Shakuntala is a success, Mademoiselle Claudel. You’ll want this”—he put a glass in her hand—“because I have thrilling news for you. I’ve just been told your piece has won the Salon prize!”
Camille squealed and pecked the critic, and new friend, on his fleshy cheek.
Though taken aback, he smiled. “Congratulations. It is well deserved.”
“Félicitations!” Auguste kissed her on both cheeks and held her face in his strong hands. “I could not be happier for you.”
She had been given a prize at last! This was the beginning of many great things to come—she just knew it. Tears pricked behind her eyes. Acceptance as an artist meant more to her than she had ever realized. It meant everything, and now she had it all. Paul and Papa would be so proud. She could hardly wait to tell them. She gulped down half of her champagne and choked on the sting of bubbles in her nose and throat. Her heart was bursting with happiness!
“Oh, Auguste, I’ve done it.” She wrapped her free arm around his neck.
Eyebrows raised, Mathias looked from one to the other, weighing the intimacy between them.
“I propose a toast,” Auguste said, raising his glass. Mathias and Camille followed suit. “To achieving the dream, to my genius student, and most of all, to a bright future.”
“To a woman blasting through their locked doors!” Camille added.
“Santé!” They all said in unison.
A month later, an array of critics circulated through the Dépôt des Marbres. Auguste’s assistants had spent a week organizing and cleaning the studio, moving Camille’s pieces in progress and positioning them in an attractive arrangement. Even those she had carved for Auguste sat on display. Camille smiled. It had been facile convincing the critics to attend a private showing after her winning a prize at the Salon. All evening she had been pulling Auguste into his office or around dark corners and kissing him in thanks.
She laid a hand on her abdomen. They had feasted on creamed celery soup, spring lamb, and asparagus at a restaurant that afternoon to celebrate, and she was still full to the brim. It was the first large meal she had eaten since Giganti had left. He had taken her appetite with him when he left her in the lurch. But her luck had changed and with it, the success of her career. She had arrived.
“I am happy you are here,” Camille said, clinking her glass against Paul’s.
Though Paul claimed he wanted to be there for her, she’d had to convince him to abandon a prayer service that evening to attend. A shadow fell over her good humor. He had been attending daily confession, and mass almost as often. Even more disturbing was his incessant talk of saints. He no longer spoke of friends or his life outside the church. She had even witnessed him berating himself for his “sinful” behavior. She hoped the phase would pass—his obsession was beginning to worry her.
“I am so proud of you,” Paul said. “I knew they would recognize your talent one day.” He sipped from his aperitif glass and looked about the room, self-possessed and confident.
Camille had trained him well. Now her brother moved about the circle of writers, artists, and critics as if he were one of them, and he was. “Congratulations on your prize,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I knew it, Paul. You’ve been destined to be a writer since you were a runt.”
He laughed. “We’ll see where the literary prize takes me. It could be a lark.”
“Nonsense.” She finished the last of her punch. “What are you reading these days?”
“A few works by Americans, if you can believe it. I’ve been meeting with American writers studying here in Paris, though they have gotten me into trouble a few times at the bar.”
Camille wondered if the Americans were the reason Paul felt he must confess each day. She scooped another ladle of punch into her glass, the third of the evening. She shouldn’t have more or she might say something inappropriate, but the alcohol prevented her vision from blurring and colors from searing her eyes.
“Take it easy,” Paul said. “You’ll be stumbling like a drunkard before long.”
“You’re the expert on that, aren’t you? I can recall more than one occasion I cleaned up your vomit.”
“Touché,” he said, a smile curving his thin lips.
They walked toward a study of Auguste that she had just begun. The bust’s figure was still barely recognizable.
“How did Monsieur Rodin manage to bring so many critics to a faux salon?” Paul asked.
“He promised to let them have a peek at his designs for a new piece; he’s calling it The Eternal Idol,” Camille said, eyeing a wrinkle in her bust’s beard she needed to reshape. “As for the faux salon, I didn’t like the idea at first, but if it exposes my work, I cannot complain.”
“I saw your sketches on the table last night,” Paul said.
She turned to him, truly interested to know his opinion. “What did you think?”
“They are all nude.” He paused as if unsure whether or not he should continue. “They are perverse, I must admit. They make me uncomfortable just viewing them. I can’t imagine what it must be like creating them.”
Camille laughed. Her grown brother took offense to nude women? “You must be the only man in the world who feels that way.”
“They’re naked figures draped upon one another.” He blushed from his suit collar to his hairline. “They’re quite shocking. Sinful, even. I question Monsieur Rodin’s motives in his teachings.”
She could say many things about her own motives that would make her brother blush, but she could not bring herself to sully his innocence, even if his righteousness grated on her nerves.
At that exact moment, Auguste started in their direction with three gentlemen in tow.
“Regarde, Paul. You say the word and the Devil appears.”
Paul flattened his lips in disapproval. “Look at his eager face. I bet the man is in love with you.”
She smiled. “You can see it so easily.”
He turned toward her, his gaze incredulous. “Are you his lover? Camille,” he hissed under his breath, “he has a wife. You’re committing adultery.”
She lowered her voice. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paul. Rose Beuret isn’t—”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”
She eyed him coldly. “Neither he nor I are married. And who knows? Perhaps we will be one day. You could support me instead of chastising me with your religion.”
The muscles in Paul’s j
aw clenched. “He is despicable! Using you the way he is.”
Auguste joined them, cutting their conversation short. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel, mademoiselle. I would like to introduce you to Messieurs Leroi and Geffroy. And you know Mathias.”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Camille said, pushing Paul’s condemnation from her mind. Tonight was a happy event, another evening filled with praise and excitement, which she sorely deserved.
Mathias’s cheeks were as ruddy as ever. He leaned over his large stomach to kiss Camille’s hand. “It is lovely to see you again.”
“Likewise.” She smiled coyly at the gentlemen. Mathias had gushed about her works since their first meeting, at the Salon.
Mathias beamed at her. He seemed the quintessential round and jolly fellow.
“I was just saying to Rodin that I see pagan bliss and worship of the human form in his portraits of the Gates,” he said. “In most of his works, really. Man prostrate to nature, or to woman. Yet yours convey an intimacy between figures. A yearning not of the flesh, but an internal beseeching to be loved and understood.”
“That is what I hope they convey, monsieur. I’m pleased it’s obvious.”
“I am impressed as well, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Leroi said.
His perfect cravat and wavy blond hair shone in the light. This man possessed an arrogance in his fine features, and a self-assuredness that suggested he had been granted all he desired in his life.
“I’ve never seen a woman with such promise,” Leroi continued.
Camille smiled and he winked at her. Her smile froze on her face. She did not know if Leroi was flirting with her or winking at her as if she were a child. In either case, she didn’t like it. She was a serious artist and wanted to be seen as such.
“Likewise,” Gustave Geffroy said, nodding stiffly. Giving praise to a woman seemed difficult for him. “I am looking forward to seeing your pieces in the next Salon.”
“If they are accepted,” she replied.
“They will be.” Paul jumped to her defense.
“I agree.” Auguste rubbed his beard. “I, on the other hand, may have an issue with my Burghers. The ministers still view me as an outlaw and are giving me trouble, but I won’t give in.”
Camille looked away to hide her withering look. Auguste yearned to be accepted, she knew, regardless of his brave words. She despised when he slipped into being une victime de l’État.
And you are his victim. He uses you for his own gain.
Camille pitched forward, startled by the Voice. Where had it come from?
“A persecuted master,” Mathias said, oblivious to her stumbling.
“An artist who operates outside the lines of propriety,” Paul said, his voice pregnant with disdain. “Perhaps that is why they will not accept your work.”
Auguste raised a questioning eyebrow, then looked to Camille. “I beg your pardon, but I find the lines of propriety are not so clearly defined.”
Geffroy pinched his lips together, his discomfort apparent. “If you will excuse me, I am just going to take one more look at your sketches, Auguste.”
“I will join him,” Leroi said. He smiled an oily smile at Camille that made her stomach flip with disgust.
Mathias looked from Paul to Auguste. “Mademoiselle, I would like to speak with you more later.” Camille nodded and the gentleman followed the others.
Auguste turned to Paul once the critics had moved out of earshot. “And just what did you mean by your comment? It was rude and uncalled for in present company.”
“You bed my sister, and sign your name to her pieces to further your own career, yet you have the audacity to keep a woman at home. It’s shameful!”
Auguste’s voice dropped to a menacing tone. “I am being lectured by a boy who knows nothing of my life? How old are you? Twenty?”
“Old enough to know a leeching bastard when I see one!”
Auguste gripped Paul’s arm. “You’ll not speak to me this way in front of my colleagues. If you have a problem, we’ll discuss it elsewhere.”
“Unhand me!” Paul jerked free of his grasp.
Camille’s eyes darted around the room. The Voice had come back! The clack of heels on floor, the murmur of voices increased in volume. Laughter and chatter boomed in her head.
You are disgraceful. They are laughing at you.
She looked around the room again, frantic to locate the source of the laughter, the Voice. Who dared mock her on this night? Nothing but a blur of faces and orbs of color streaked by before her eyes. She blinked and looked to Auguste and Paul. They argued, but their conversation muddled and sloshed around in her mind. She envisioned their words as strings of pearls browning and disintegrating, before evaporating out of her ears like a stream of smoke. What in the devil was the matter with her? She cursed herself for drinking too much.
“Camille?” Auguste slid his hand under her arm. “What is the matter?”
“Get me out of here,” she whispered. She could not let the critics see her in her confused state.
“Paul, fetch a cab. I’ll escort her downstairs.”
“Do not tell me what to do,” Paul said.
Auguste stood a centimeter from his face. “Do it now,” he growled. “Your sister needs us.”
Camille watched in fascinated horror as the letters of Auguste’s words flowed from his lips, hardened to black pebbles, and tumbled to the ground. She winced as they hit the wood floor and scattered beneath the furniture toward the fire.
She covered her ears and leaned against Auguste. “Make it stop!”
“What is it?” He dragged her from the room and out of doors to avoid a scene.
“The Voice! The noises.” She clutched her head. “Your words,” she said, her voice quivering, “turned to pebbles.”
Bewilderment crossed his features. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s get you home.”
“No!” She thrashed against him in the street. “I can’t see Mother like this.”
Mother would berate her for being an embarrassment, lock her in her room, or, worse, call a doctor to assess her, but there was nothing wrong with her. It would pass. It always did.
A thousand thoughts streamed through her mind like landscape past a train window, dashing by too fast for her to make out details or their meaning.
Paul motioned to them from where he stood, a block down the street. Auguste pulled her tightly against him and walked her to the hackney.
“Get some rest tonight,” he said. “You’re overworked, excited by the critics.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’d say we’re due a vacation. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Too numb to respond, she mounted the step up into the hackney cab. Paul slipped his arm about her shoulders. He looked down at Auguste in his righteous way. “I will take it from here.” Camille sank into her brother’s embrace as the cab sped away.
Chapter 25
Four weeks of bliss at the Château de l’Islette, in Touraine—working, making love, strolling through the fields and forest in leisurely bliss—and Auguste did not want to return to Paris. He stoked the bonfire and watched as glowing embers sprayed into the black sky and rained down in a shower of gold. The moon did not show its face and there was no stirring breeze; just the cool damp air of late spring that bathed the grass in dew and soaked into his bones. Camille sat wrapped in a blanket at the fire pit’s edge, the flickering light dancing across her face. His Diana in the wilderness, by turns tender and fierce. He didn’t know what to make of her spells. One day she seemed well, normal; the next a violence welled inside her and she lashed out. And then there were her suspicions that he followed her to steal her ideas, and the voice that she said spoke to her.
Auguste stirred the carpet of ash inside the ring of stones with his stick. Why would he use Camille? She inspired him, but he saw nothing untoward in t
hat. Her beautiful and terrible mind intrigued him, but it seemed to torment her more and more. Dieu, but he loved her. If he could only take care of her in the ways he wished he could.
Camille rose to throw a log on the fire. The flames licked the rough layers of bark and singed the few dried leaves still attached. “I liked this trip best of all,” she said. “Away from the noise of Paris. The screeching and clanking. All of the people. It crowds me and I can’t think. I wish we could stay longer.”
“I have to meet with Gustave Geffroy at the end of the week. I’m out of money for the time being anyway,” he added quietly.
“Why do you have so many studios?” Camille asked. “How many are there? Five? You spend every franc you have on them.” Her tone became peevish.
Wary at her change, Auguste proceeded cautiously. He did not feel up for a quarrel. “I need the space. The casts and life-size maquettes have taken over the studio. Where would we work, mon amour, if I did not stash my portraits somewhere?”
“There is more than enough room. I think you keep them because you like to boast about how successful you are. Such vanity. Those critics and your public care nothing for you. They gobble up the beauty we create like starved men. Starved to fill the void in their meaningless lives. And you, you scramble to do their bidding. Sometimes it is disgusting to watch.”
“Why are you being so spiteful?” His voice raised an octave as his patience drained away. “I never budge from my vision, regardless of their reviews. I am not one of their academy. I am a beggar in their world of classicists, vying for respect. Striving to create what I know to be true and good and beautiful. Do not treat me as if you are better than I am. You would do well to follow my example and befriend the critics and ministers as well.”
“I am but a lowly woman, remember? Who sculpts, according to those cons, exactly like you. My Giganti. ‘The likes of Rodin’s genius portrayed through Claudel’s portraits. It would be best if she imagined her own,’” she spat. “Respect, indeed. Monsieur Leroi speaks kindly of my sketches while I am in the room and reserves his true feelings for the papers. Never mind his disgusting advances. I am not yet treated as your equal in intellect or being. How will I gain their respect, much less their friendship?” She drank from her cup. “Unless I spread my legs for them.”