Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  Footsteps echoed in the staircase outside Auguste’s bedroom door.

  “It’s Octave. Let me in.” Mirbeau’s voice came from the corridor.

  Rodin pushed up in bed. He had been unable to face the mountain of work awaiting him at the studio without her in it—he could not even bring himself to say her name. Rose berated him, then pleaded with him every day to forget sa féroce amie. Yet he could not banish the image of her wilting in sorrow in his arms. He had betrayed her, their love. He was a coward.

  “I am not receiving visitors.” Rodin left the house only to post letters, then returned to the dimly lit room and relinquished himself to the blessed escape of sleep.

  “Open the door this minute or I will break it down,” Octave said firmly.

  Rodin heaved a sigh, hoisted himself from bed, and padded to the door. “I am in my chemise.”

  “No matter,” Octave said, stepping into the room. He placed his hands on Rodin’s shoulders. “This must end. Come away to my summer home in Normandy. We’ll spend a month there, take in the sea and the salty air. It will do you some good.”

  “I don’t know. I have so much to do—”

  “Which you aren’t doing even now. You suffer from heartbreak and anxiety. It will pass with time. A little perspective from afar will help.”

  Auguste had written to Octave about her. There weren’t many he could tell, but both Octave and Mathias had proven to be good friends—unlike Jules, from whom he had still not heard despite the approaching Salon.

  “Well?” Octave prodded, stroking his signature mustache. “What do you say?”

  Auguste stared into his friend’s face and saw the concern brimming in his eyes. “When do we leave?”

  Camille strolled with Jessie through the vast Jardin du Luxembourg in search of a shady spot beneath a tree. They had spent hours in the studio and needed a change of scenery. The late summer haze had crawled from the streets and through their open windows. The odor of urine and rotten garbage mingled with the scent of clay and their own sweat. Camille wanted to rip off her gown and lie in her undergarments, float down the river Seine.

  Jessie grunted as she swung a basket at her side, heavy with food and wine. She had offered to provide the picnic this time because of her guilt. She had used the last of Camille’s clay for the third time that month without asking, and she still owed her share of rent on the atelier—not to mention a small fortune for an assortment of supplies. Why Jessie had not asked her parents for money, Camille didn’t understand. The Lipscombs lived on a huge estate and had all the money they needed. Was Camille supposed to feel sympathy for her? Her friend’s life had been easy—her parents adored her and now she had a fiancé.

  Camille pushed aside her negative thoughts; she didn’t want to ruin one of the few remaining days she had with her friend. Jessie had forgiven her easily after she’d treated Monsieur Elborne with such disdain, and she owed her friend a bit of generosity in return.

  A couple walking their poodle neared them on the gravel path. The dog leapt toward Jessie’s picnic basket to sniff it. After a moment of investigating, he pawed at her skirt.

  Jessie laughed. “I’m sorry, little dog, but this isn’t for you.”

  “César, ça suffit!” The dog’s owner yanked on the leash. He did not appear amused.

  “That’s a big name for a little pup,” Jessie said.

  “His character is grand, believe me,” the woman said, mopping her forehead with a pale green handkerchief that matched the bodice of her gown.

  César barked and then his tongue fell from his mouth, showing his dog smile. Camille fixated on the outline of the dog’s body as it distorted and blended with the gravel path until there were not two objects but one: a ball of gray fur with black pupils against vivid whites. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again. She glanced from one face to the next. César’s owners’ cheekbones and ears, the planes of their faces distorted. She clutched her head.

  The gentleman tugged at the leash. “Come, César.”

  “Camille?” Jessie’s concerned voice cut through the fog in her head. “We need to get you out of the heat.”

  “I just need to sit down,” Camille said, as an arm slipped around her shoulders. She allowed herself to be led to a bench under the shelter of a shade tree.

  “Have a drink of water.” Jessie fished a glass bottle from the basket, uncorked it, and poured water into a tin cup.

  Camille gulped it down greedily, then stretched out on the bench and closed her eyes. “The Voice has come back and my vision . . . sometimes I cannot see. I don’t know what to do.” She threw her arm over her eyes. “And the poodle? I couldn’t distinguish where he ended and the gravel path began. He was a gray blur with bright devil eyes.”

  “What voice do you mean?” Jessie asked, her tone cautious. “You are hearing voices?”

  Camille groaned. “Some days. It isn’t frequent, but the other things . . . What’s wrong with me?”

  Jessie sat down beside her. “You have been working so hard lately and you are under a lot of pressure. Then there is Rodin,” she added quietly. “Do you miss him? He wrote to me again and asked after you.”

  As if a dam had burst, a hot flood rushed down Camille’s cheeks. “And what did you tell him? That I am a nightmare of distress, debts, and demon voices?”

  “Perhaps you should consider a holiday. Get away from Paris for a while.”

  “And who is to pay for my vacation?” She looked up through a hank of frizzy hair. “I can hardly pay rent. I sold another plaster, but that isn’t enough. Papa has given me so much money already. I can’t ask him for more.”

  Jessie watched a pair riding bicycles. The chime of their bells rang merrily in the sunshine. “I owe you money,” she said. “I am sorry; truly I am. My father’s fortune is at risk and they have stopped sending my allowance. Tutoring has been the only way I’ve been able to manage.”

  “Hasn’t your father just earned his fortune?” Camille snapped. She didn’t believe the mansion and lavish vacations of which she had partaken only last summer had vanished. “You take my things. You tell your students you’re as good a sculptor as Auguste. We both know that isn’t true. You’re a liar,” she said with vengeance. “How can I believe you anymore, Jessie?”

  The bicycle bells chimed. Their vibrating fused into the sharpened point of a saber to stab her brain. Camille groaned. “And you share my secrets with him.” She looked about, frantic. “You’re not my friend. You use me. You use Auguste.”

  The bells again. Her head rang and a metallic tang flooded her mouth.

  “What are you talking about?” Jessie demanded. Her face registered her alarm. “You are unwell, Camille. You aren’t yourself—”

  Camille’s head swiveled from left to right as she scanned the pedestrians in the park around them. “What are you scheming now? Auguste writes to you. Are you planning something with him?”

  Shock registered on Jessie’s face.

  “Get out of my sight!” Camille screamed. “Get your things from my studio and leave. I don’t need someone who betrays me.”

  Jessie stood and gathered her basket of things. “You have lost your mind! It is true I have failed at doing the right thing at times, but I have always been your friend.” She turned to go, but stopped suddenly to add, “I am as talented a sculptor as you, and likely as Auguste. It is not a lie to tell my students thus.”

  Camille laughed, a hollow, unnatural sound. “Even if that were true—which it is not—your sculpting career is finished the moment you set foot on that ferry back to England, and you know it.”

  Jessie’s shoulders drooped. “If you continue to treat people as you do, you will be alone—alone with no one to care for you, and all of the success in the world will mean nothing. Good-bye, Camille. I wish you well.”

  “Keep telling yourself you a
re as skilled as Auguste!” she shouted at Jessie’s retreating back. “You are a liar and a fake, desperate to be something you aren’t.” Camille was suddenly confused, her own words echoing in her ears and ringing somewhere deep within her core. A liar and a fake, she would never be as skilled as Auguste.

  When Jessie had disappeared from sight, a pang of remorse stole Camille’s breath away. She gripped her sides to hold in the pain. Her friend was gone, and would likely never speak to her again. Why had she treated her that way, regardless of her shortcomings? Had she become like Mother? She curled in on herself, around her leaden despair.

  Though Auguste had spent the fall seeing Camille’s face in every block of marble, her supple form posed upon a platform smiling for only him, his spirits revived. A letter had come, awarding him the commission to create Hugo for the Panthéon. He had rejoiced at the news, and found solace in poring over his sketches once more. He closed the ledger and returned it to his desk drawer. He did not need more work with his Burghers yet to be finished, and then there were the Gates and several private pieces, but working on Hugo gave him a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  Truman Bartlett, artist and critic, poked his head into Auguste’s office.

  “Come in.” Rodin slid a silver-plated letter opener under the flap of an envelope sent from the Société des Artistes Français. He looked up as Truman entered.

  “Are you ready to dine?” Truman removed his hat.

  “Oui, in one moment.” Rodin skimmed the letter. “I cannot believe it.” His eyes bulged and he reread it for good measure. “I’ve been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. The bastards have finally accepted I’m here to stay.” He sat back in his chair. As the news soaked in, a giddiness he had not felt in months warmed his blood. He slammed his fist on the tabletop. “I’ve done it, Truman! I’ve really done it. If only my father and sister were alive to see it.”

  Truman extended his hand. “Congratulations are in order. And a toast.”

  Auguste stood and shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you, my friend.” A hearty laugh escaped his lips and he ran his hands over his hair. Rodin stood motionless for several moments while he basked in his newfound happiness. “I can’t believe it. This day has finally arrived.”

  A cloud darkened his sudden good humor. There had been scandals that involved artists paying for the award and, consequently, much gossip circulating. It belittled the honor and insulted those still hoping to attain it. But Auguste had not paid for it and damn those who thought he had. He had never cared for what others thought of him anyway. Why would he begin now?

  He slipped into his overcoat. “What do you think of the scandal?”

  “No one will believe you paid to win, if that’s what you mean,” Truman said. “You’re one of the most talented and well-known sculptors in Paris these days, probably in all of Europe. It shouldn’t have taken them so long to award the ribbon to you in the first place.” He shrugged. “But you can always refuse to accept it if you’re truly concerned with the rumors. Degas, Courbet, Daumier all denied the ribbon, though I think it foolish. It proves nothing, but making them look like stubborn old men.”

  Auguste puffed out a breath. “Yes, I know. Antibourgeois, anti–Napoleonic Empire sentiment and all that. Never mind the many talentless hacks who have toed the line for the école all these years. But frankly, I have bills to pay so I’m happy to accept a commission from anyone, bourgeois or not. Rent for my ateliers, all of the supplies.” He rubbed his eyes. “Do you think they will snub me?”

  “Who? Your friends?”

  “The critics, my friends. Geffroy, Mirbeau, Monet. Dalou, especially. They scoff at it like it’s a label of mediocrity.”

  Truman grasped his shoulder. “It is an honor. Be proud and stand behind it. Very few men can boast they have won such a prestigious award.”

  Auguste’s friend had toiled as an artist and as a critic. He knew well the prestige associated with a national award. Still, the scandal worried him. Would his friends disapprove?

  “Take time to think about it,” Truman said. “For now, let’s eat!”

  Auguste nodded, though perhaps he would skip right to the drink.

  A month later, Auguste looked over the adorned heads of the crowd. His cravat strangled him, or perhaps his unease came from all those eyes upon him. He touched his precious Légion d’Honneur, pinned at his lapel, and now wove through the crowd to his place at the table. A ball of anxiety, he had not eaten all day, but now the aroma of meat wafting from the belly of the building sent his stomach to grumbling. If only Camille had accompanied him. God, he wanted to share this moment with her, to fill her full of fine food and parade her across the dance floor in an elegant peacock blue gown, the shade of her lovely eyes. How she would laugh at the bureaucrats stuffed in their tailored suits and the women plucked, preened, and pasted with false smiles. They would exchange secret smiles, knowing looks. But he had not heard from her in many months.

  Auguste sat and tucked his serviette into his collar. A beautiful woman to his right turned a flirtatious smile on him. “Félicitations, Monsieur Rodin.” She fluttered her painted eyes and tipped her head at a coquettish angle.

  He had seen her at another event. Madame Barder, queen bee in her circle of wealthy lady friends and their self-made husbands. Her gold and pink taffeta gown set off the rosy blush accenting her cheekbones and strong jawline. A long, creamy neck and cascade of blond hair threaded with silver gave her a regal look. If he were to create her portrait, her complexion would demand to be carved in the most delicate alabaster.

  “Merci—Madame Barder, is it?” he asked.

  “C’est moi,” she replied. “I would love to see your work, Monsieur. Perhaps a visit to the Dépôt des Marbres is in order. To be one of your subjects would be”—she smiled—“titillating.” She leaned forward so he might peer down the front of her dress.

  Despite her beauty and apparent willingness, a tumble in bed with a stranger couldn’t be further from Auguste’s mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at her husband across the table. The woman possessed bravado, though not the kind he admired. He was thankful for the rumble of laughter and voices that drowned out her words. He must be cautious, lest Monsieur Barder think him a rogue. Rodin had just been accepted into this circle and didn’t want to be pushed out once more—especially over a woman he did not want.

  “One of my assistants would be happy to escort you through my studio,” he replied.

  The maître d’hôtel, dressed in black-and-white livery, rushed from the kitchen leading a flurry of his staff. They carried soup tureens filled to the brim with creamed winter vegetable soup and baskets of fresh bread—the first course of the evening. Auguste could smell it from his place at the table.

  Madame Barder changed her tactic. “Aren’t you buzzing with happiness? To be recognized as an artist of national merit is such an honor.” She smiled and a twinkle lit her gray eyes. “An honor well deserved.”

  “Thank you, and yes, I am very honored.” He hoped the award meant his legacy would be ensured. An indescribable sentiment bloomed in his chest at the thought. Pride? Elation?

  Gratitude.

  His works would not be forgotten or degraded—perhaps he would even make history. He felt his imprint on the art world had meant something, but that did not mean his contemporaries felt the same way. His reviews over the years had proven that.

  “Has the controversy affected you?” She touched the back of his hand lightly. “I know you would never purchase your award. You are too upstanding for such a thing.”

  Auguste nodded and drank from his water glass.

  “I’m assuming you have seen Octave Mirbeau’s response to your acceptance in the journal?” she continued.

  He stared at her in surprise. The woman had not only propositioned him in front of her husband, but she was a gossip. Yet he knew he must tread carefu
lly.

  “I’ve read the article Le Chemin de la Croix, yes,” he said. “Monsieur Mirbeau wishes me well, though he is unhappy I accepted the award.” Auguste had to admit the article had stung, but he knew Octave had his best interests at heart. Truly, his friend lashed out at the institution and not at him.

  “I’m certain he wishes you well. Mirbeau may as well have called you a genius in that article, but he did not hesitate to express his thoughts, publicly. That must have been quite offensive.”

  Auguste chewed a mouthful of bread. He had known madame for mere minutes and she expected him to pour out his heart. He wished he could change his seat at the table.

  She raised her preened eyebrows expectantly.

  He attempted to keep his irritation in check. “I assure you I am quite happy with the honor and that all is well.”

  “Take heart, monsieur. Scandals bring recognition and that can only mean good things for your art.”

  “I am not one for scandal, madame. It insults my integrity.”

  “Oh, come now. A secret or dash of impropriety adds a sense of mystery to an artist. Not that you need a single thing, monsieur. You’re positively alluring as you are. Artists are so intriguing.” Madame Barder dabbed at her mouth with a serviette, erasing the faded rouge from her lips. “Why don’t I come to your studio next week? I might find a portrait or two to buy, or at the very least recommend to friends.”

  Rodin saw through her ruse. She wished to buy him, to keep him at her heel as she did her friends. He could see it in her glittery brooch and diamond earrings, in the expensive adornments her lady friends wore, and worst of all in her flirtatious manner. He would not sell himself to her—he did not need money that desperately.

  But Camille did.

  The staff returned to cart away their empty bowls and replace them with plates of whitefish dressed with crème fraîche and a chiffonade of herbs.

  “This smells divine, but I must save my appetite for the duck course. A woman should look after her figure.” She sipped from her wineglass instead. “So what do you say?”