by Heather Webb
Auguste flinched at the unwelcome vision her words evoked. “You will never gain their respect if you are rude and treat them with disdain.”
“As they do me?” Camille stood. “It is difficult to be courteous when they act as if I am beneath them!” She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and stormed toward the house.
“Stubborn woman! You sabotage yourself!” he shouted after her.
She broke into a run, stumbling over the folds in her dress. When she reached the door, she slammed it behind her.
So that was it, then. A perfect rendezvous spoiled by a tantrum. Auguste’s shoulders sagged and he jammed his hands inside his coat, suddenly chilled. Paper rustled against his fingertips. He had yet to tell her about the letter Rose had forwarded from Paris that morning. The Claudels had invited him to visit their summer home in Villeneuve.
For once Camille was grateful to be with her family, tucked away in their country home in Villeneuve, her favorite place in the world, far from the complication of Auguste and the art world’s prying eyes. She brought a few supplies with her for the duration of the month, but she would need to dig up clay along the riverbank as she always had. Papa would ride with her after luncheons and later in the evenings; Paul would read to the family by candlelight. Best of all, Mother seemed deliriously happy when away from Paris and in her childhood home.
Camille tossed a pebble at one of the outlying boulders from her favorite spot in the rock garden of La Hottée du Diable. She watched the small stone ricochet from the crest of limestone into the trees just beyond. It would be Louise’s last summer home before she married. She wondered what it would be like for Mother to lose her favorite child. She would probably latch on to Paul until he left. That would be soon enough.
She stretched and jumped down from her stony seat, sketchbook tucked under her arm. She felt almost like a child. Almost. The sun slipped toward the horizon, its fading rays highlighting Villeneuve’s lonely landscape. Soon night’s ink would seep into the sky, cloaking rocky knolls and barren fields in mystery. She traipsed through forest, over weathered paths and along the fallow fields. When she reached a junction in the path not far from the center of town, she stopped. A breeze stirred a mass of interlocking vines curling over a stone wall. The vine’s leaves waltzed on a current of wind.
The rustle of fabric, intertwined limbs . . . a waltz! Camille dropped to the ground and flipped open her sketchbook. Her pencil flew over the page and two lovers emerged, embracing in the most intimate dance. The woman’s head would rest on his shoulder and her dress would flow behind her lithe frame like ocean waves. Their love, their pain moved in solidarity with each step. One step forward, one back, or were they all sideways? She sketched rapidly, until she could no longer see, and skipped up the lane toward home. Giddy with inspiration, she entered the house humming under her breath.
Papa looked over the edge of his paper, the Courrier de l’Aisne, from his favorite chaise. “You are happy to be here.”
Camille brushed her lips on his forehead. “Very.”
He smiled. “Well, to add to your happiness, I have good news.” He folded his paper in half. “Monsieur Rodin has accepted our invitation to join us tomorrow at midday. We’ll dine in the garden and he will depart tomorrow evening to stay with a friend nearby.”
Camille stilled. Her elation shifted to distress. She needed time away, yet their last meeting they had quarreled and she wanted to apologize.
“What is it, ma chère?” he asked.
“It’s nothing.” She whirled around and headed for the door again. It would be difficult to hide their affection from her parents. Under ordinary circumstances she failed at burying her emotions. How, then, would she manage her passion for this man?
“Where are you going?” Papa called after her. “It’s dark!”
Camille did not answer, but hurried outdoors to let the night spill over her.
The following morning, Camille peeled one eye open, then two at the sound of a rooster crowing in a neighbor’s garden. The sun had not yet awakened from its slumber and the lingering darkness pressed against the windowpanes. She tossed in her bed. Auguste would arrive today. He had followed her once more. Would he seek her to the ends of the earth? Track her scent like a bloodhound to tap her well of inspiration and lap it up? Then there was Monsieur Leroi, the lout, who had called her work derivative. Mathias, on the other hand, praised her highly. Who was right? She wanted to ignore them all and disappear into her marble. She needed to work, to feel her hands thick with clay. She pushed back the covers and prepared for the day, careful not to wake Louise, who snored softly in the bed parallel to hers.
Several hours later, Paul threw open the barn door. “Monsieur Rodin is here.” He said the words as if they left a foul taste in his mouth.
Camille looked down at her smock smeared with dirt. Auguste had seen her far worse. Still, it would not do to look a mess at the table. She didn’t need to row with Mother today.
“I’ll just wash my face and pin my hair,” she said. “Maybe throw on a fresh dress.”
“Maybe?” Paul rolled his eyes. “Move quickly. We’re serving aperitifs now.”
She wiped her hands hastily and dashed from the barn to the house, careful to avoid being seen. Once indoors, she heard Auguste’s voice in the salon. The melodious canter of his speech rushed over her and her body tingled with longing. Once changed and refreshed, she headed to the terrace. She touched the brooch at her breast. She could not wait to show him The Waltz.
The sound of chinking silverware and Mother’s laughter filled the air. Mother loved to put on a good show for guests. A sudden lightness came over Camille as she rushed through the yard, her violet dress rustling about her feet. She’d even pinned a flower in her hair. Regardless of her reservation, of the Voice in her head, she loved Auguste with a tenacity that frightened her, and she would not run from him, or the blasted critics.
When she reached the edge of the table she stopped.
Louise, Paul, and her parents chatted with their guests—Auguste and a woman. The woman locked eyes with Camille and paused, the wineglass hovering near her lips. A glance of utter hate burdened her features.
Camille’s mouth went dry and her throat constricted. It was she—the woman who held him captive. She stared back at Rose Beuret, unable to move. What, in the name of God, was she doing here? How dare Auguste bring her! Did he wish to humble her, to ridicule her in front of her own family? Her stomach roiled and she felt as if she might retch.
“Ma chère, Monsieur Rodin and his wife,” Papa said, motioning to a chair at the table. “Monsieur’s dedication to your progress is admirable. He has traveled from Paris to pledge his support.”
Rose Beuret’s pale skin blanched whiter still. She knew very well how dedicated Auguste was to Camille. The woman gulped from her wineglass to hide her trembling hands.
Auguste threw Camille a pleading look.
Her gaze shifted to Paul. He hid his frown behind his water glass.
“Join us.” Papa motioned to the place at the table beside Louise, directly across from Auguste.
“For heaven’s sakes, sit down,” Louise said, tossing her hair. “We cannot begin without you.”
After Camille sat between her brother and sister, she said, “Isn’t monsieur’s devotion admirable?” Her tone dripped with spite. “And how lovely to meet you, madame. You are the woman who keeps his house, correct?”
Mother’s mouth fell open. “Do not speak to Madame Rodin that way!”
“I hope you will forgive me, Madame Rodin.” Camille emphasized the false title. “I did not realize monsieur was married.”
Rose opened her mouth to retort, when the maid and cook arrived, their arms loaded with platters.
“Would everyone care for cold potage?” Corinne set the tureen on the table. “I’ll serve a vegetable next.”
“Sounds delicious.” Auguste tucked a napkin into his collar. He avoided Camille’s withering stare.
Paul thumped Camille’s leg under the table. She looked down at her soup. No one spoke. Spoons clanged and scraped against porcelain bowls. A happy bird belted a song from its nest in the bushes along the edge of the property.
“Paul,” Papa said, breaking the uneasy silence, “tell Monsieur Rodin about your award.”
“Yes, I hear you’re a talented young man,” Auguste said, thankful for the safe direction of the conversation. “Mademoiselle Claudel sings your praises.”
Camille noticed the falsetto in Auguste’s voice.
Paul wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Camille is my biggest supporter.” He smiled at her. “I’m not sure where I would be without her encouragement.”
“Likewise, brother.” She blew him a kiss.
Rose sneered into her napkin. Camille smiled sweetly at her in response.
Thankfully, the remainder of the meal, Mother and Louise prattled on about the impending wedding. When the last piece of fruit had been finished, Papa waved his hand at the garden. “Would you care for a walk? Or perhaps Louise could play something for us?”
Louise sat taller, clearly pleased by the attention. “I would be honored to play for you, Monsieur and Madame Rodin.”
Rose gave her a genuine smile. “That would be delightful, dear.”
They all stood—all but Camille. She remained in her seat and watched everyone file inside. Her food had not been touched. Anger and disgust filled the cavity of her stomach instead. How could Auguste do this to her? She was nothing but a statue, an accessory in his life, someone to pass his time and to make him feel like a man. A tide of pain rolled through her and flooded her throat. How much she had suffered at his hand. She couldn’t bear it. Auguste had no intention of leaving Rose and clearly did not take his relationship with Camille in earnest.
Hot tears pooled in her eyes. She stumbled through the yard, fleeing the party, and her pain. She lost her footing on lumpy lawn in her haste to get away and tumbled to the ground. The flower tucked in her hair fluttered to her lap and her beautiful violet gown was smeared with dirt.
She must leave him. The wretched voice had been right. Auguste used her, but the thought of never seeing him . . . A forlorn sob racked her body.
“Are you hurt?” Auguste strode toward her.
Camille scrambled to her feet and strode away from him. “Leave me, please. Just go.”
“My darling, wait.” He chased her across the lawn and into the field abutting the Claudel property. Her knees wobbled and she stumbled once more. His strong hand caught her and pulled her into his embrace. “I had no choice. Rose’s name was on the invitation. She opened it and replied before I had even seen the letter. I tried to tell you in Islette, but we argued and you left. In a panic, I penned a letter and sent it right away to warn you.”
Camille’s eyes grew wide. “I never received it.” And there was only one person who might read her mail and keep it from her: Mother. She knew about them—she must. Tears fell freely, staining her cheeks. Every dream she had of spending their lives together collapsed, every happy memory turned to a dagger, stabbing her insides. The pain. She wanted to crawl into a dark room and disappear.
Auguste fished his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her tears with a tender hand. “Amour,” he whispered, “there is only you. I love you. Since the moment I met you there was no one else.”
“If that were true, she would not be here, humiliating me in front of my family.” She sobbed. “Did you see the look she gave me?”
Auguste pulled her into his arms. “She is the mother of my son, a longtime friend. I cannot just throw her into the street. Please understand that. Her presence in my house does not diminish what I feel for you. You have my heart. My soul.” He pressed her hand to his heart. “It will always belong to you.”
Though Camille wanted to slug him, she could not find the strength. Instead she laid her head against his chest and the tears flowed, soaking his linen suit jacket.
“Shhh.” He stroked her hair. “I am here for you, always. Rose will never stand in the way of our love.”
She did not understand him. If she meant so much to him, despite his friendship with Rose, he would want to be with only her. His words rang hollow. Auguste served only himself, while she and Rose were made to suffer.
She wrenched free of his grasp. “I don’t want to be anywhere with you.”
“Camille—”
“Just go!” She shoved him. “Leave me alone!”
“You are upset. You need time to refresh yourself. Enjoy the country, the clean air, the birds. When you are revived, come to me. I will be waiting for you.”
“Your poetry will not sway me. This—whatever this is between us—is finished.”
Fear filled his eyes and his mouth tugged down at the corners.
“Camille?” Mother stalked toward them. “You look a fright! Monsieur, I trust all is well? Your wife asks after you,” she said, tone clipped.
“Bien sûr. Madame, thank you for your hospitality.” He looked at Camille one last time, sorrow deepening the lines on his face. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Claudel. I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit in Villeneuve.”
Camille watched him amble toward the house. Once he was out of sight, Mother dropped any semblance of polite speech. “You little whore!” She slapped Camille’s cheek with force. “You’re fornicating with him!”
Camille staggered backward. Her hand flew to the stinging flesh where palm had connected with skin. Her right eye felt as if it would catapult from its socket. She had never been hit so hard, or at all.
“Mother,” she breathed.
“I saw him embracing you!” she hissed. “He has a wife! And now she’s here, dining prettily at the house of her husband’s mistress! How can you live with yourself?”
A grim smile crossed Camille’s face. “They aren’t married, Mother. You might say we are both his whores.”
Mother’s face registered confusion, then shock. “Then you truly are a fool. If he will not choose you when he isn’t encumbered with marriage, when would he?”
Her words stung far more than the slap. Camille turned to the open field once more and ran, skirts flapping about her ankles.
“Come back here this instant!” Mother called. “You need to send the guests off.”
Camille’s chest felt as if her heart had been cut from her body. She flew over the vast carpet of summer grass, under an indifferent blue sky. Mother had hit her! Reflexively her hand flew to her still-warm cheek. But she was right. If Auguste did not choose her now . . . Another sob caught in her throat. She willed her legs to go faster.
The sound of her breathing filled her ears as she ran. The rhythm of her legs and the pounding of her heart lulled her racing thoughts until she calmed. Above her, a raven soared on a current of air.
Camille knew what she must do.
Part Three
1887–1898
La Vague
The Wave
Chapter 26
The sun relinquished its fiery hold on the city and the first cool breeze of evening tiptoed through the open studio windows at 113 Rue d’Italie. Camille dipped a sponge into a basin of clear water, wrung it out, and patted her face and neck. She had worked steadily all day on The Waltz and it was nearly complete. Her shoulders and back ached, but soon, Monsieur Debussy would come for her. Her composer friend insisted the music at Robert Godet’s salon was sublime inspiration for any artist. She had not been out for weeks and had agreed at the last minute to accompany him.
She wondered how Auguste would feel if he saw her with Debussy. A vision of his pained expression made her stomach clench. She did not regret severing their union, despite the aching hollow in her chest and the yearning for his touch. A watery mist
obscured her vision and the room swam. She dashed a hand across her eyes. She could not cry now. She slipped behind the crude partition in the rear of her studio to change into a fresh dress. At least she had gained a new atelier, though its location had proven difficult. Auguste had done anything he could to keep her near him, even renting a space for her just a few doors down from his own, despite their parting. It would not last, but she would use it while she could. After Mother had slapped her, she had moved from the family home into her own apartment, and the new studio, for good. Damn the rumors and her reputation—or what was left of it.
Camille ran a brush through her hair and pinned loose curls in place. She still shared the atelier on Rue Notre Dame des Champs with Jessie, but in mere weeks her friend would depart for England and the atelier would close. As would a chapter in both of their lives.
The hollow in her chest throbbed again when she thought of Jessie leaving. First Giganti, then Auguste, and now Jessie. Paul was all she had left. When she emerged from behind the partition, a shadow caught her eye—the silhouette of a woman—in the window. Someone peered in from the street.
A tremor ran the length of Camille’s body. Who in the devil was that? She rushed first to the window, then to the street, spooking her intruder.
“You there!” she shouted. “Why are you spying on me? I could have you arrested!”
The retreating woman glanced over her shoulder. Though she had dashed away too fast for Camille to make out her features, she would swear it was Rose Beuret.