by Heather Webb
Mother narrowed her eyes at her. “I didn’t say you needed to leave.”
“I used the power of my intellect and surmised it.”
She ignored Camille and held up the tiny pair of trousers for closer inspection.
“Is someone having a baby?” Camille asked.
Mother’s pleasant demeanor faded and a hardened shell replaced it. “It’s for your brother, of course.”
Her sunken cheeks and skin possessed a pallor Camille had not noticed at first. What in hell was wrong with her? Stunned, she said nothing. Her brother? As in her dead infant brother, or was Mother pregnant? Camille glanced at her abdomen. “You aren’t with child? At your age—”
Mother exhaled with an angry huff. “Of course not!”
The front door closed with a bang. “Bonjour? C’est moi,” Paul called from the entrance. He walked into the salon and kissed Mother’s cheek.
“I have missed you.” Camille stood to embrace him.
“Likewise, sister. You have been gone too long. I didn’t know how I would get along without you at first.” He sat on the edge of the flowered chaise, brushed invisible wrinkles from his trousers, and prepared his own cup of chocolate. “I want to hear about your sojourn and what you have been working on—”
“Spare us the details of your time with that man,” Mother spat. She smoothed the petit pantalons and plucked a wooden spool wrapped with navy thread from the basket beside her chair.
Paul gave Mother a silencing look. “As I was saying, I want to hear all about your works, but first, I have a favor to ask of you and if I don’t out with it now, I will lose my nerve.”
“Go on, then,” Camille said, setting her cup in its saucer.
“I am applying to the diplomatic corps.”
“Paul!” Mother exclaimed.
“You are not!” Camille gasped. “You wish to live abroad? Our little Paul?”
“I’m twenty-five and a grown man.”
“Of course you are.” Camille winked at him. “And I am an old maid at twenty-nine.” He laughed. “So what is this favor?” she asked.
Paul brushed his immaculate trousers once more. “I would have a much greater chance of gaining the position if someone of influence could put in a good word for me. Someone, perhaps . . .”
“Like Monsieur Rodin?” Camille finished his sentence.
He nodded. “Yes, someone like Monsieur Rodin. I know we do not have the best relationship.”
“You mean you detest him,” she corrected.
“I am not his biggest supporter, no. But you know why—”
“I know. And yes, of course I will ask him to help you. He is not very fond of your righteous outpourings either, but you are my brother.”
“So you will ask him?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you!” He clasped her hand in his and kissed it. “I owe you so much.”
She laughed. “You may repay me by lending me some money.”
“Whatever you need.” He radiated contentment. “Yet, I still have more news.”
“More than being a foreign diplomat?” Camille’s mouth formed an O of mock surprise. “Do not keep us in suspense.”
He laughed and said, “La Ville is to be published!”
“Oh, Paul, you are incredible!” Camille leapt from her place on the settee and kissed his cheek. “You have always been talented, but this! A playwright and a diplomat. I could not be prouder, baby brother.”
Mother patted his knee. “You honor this family, unlike your sister.”
“Yes, your sister is quite the harlot,” Camille retorted, “but I’ve heard she has a way with a chisel and hammer. Even still they have decided against a commission for the republican monument in Aisne, despite her skills. Those bastard old men.”
“Watch your tongue in my house,” Mother said.
The foul mood reared its head again and Camille could not corral her words. “Will I corrupt the baby’s innocence?”
Mother’s eyes grew round. “You make a mockery of me in my own house? Get out! Get out, you hateful child!”
Camille slammed her cup on a side table, rattling the china. “Have it your way. I wasn’t feeling up for a visit anyway. Paul, congratulations. We’ll talk more about this later.”
“Camille, wait,” Paul said. “We haven’t seen you in so long. Must we quarrel?”
“I am not welcome here, and frankly, I don’t wish to be.” She turned to go.
“The day you became Monsieur Rodin’s whore, you lost your welcome here.” Mother’s voice became flat, cold as marble on a winter’s day. “You are no longer my daughter. I don’t want to see your face again. Not until you can live with integrity.”
Camille gaped at Mother’s hateful words. “You would disown me?”
Mother looked down to thread her needle.
Camille had not expected the pain that slammed into her, after so many years, after a lifetime of being rejected by her own mother. Yet its full force bore down upon her and she staggered. She would never be enough. Never. Somehow she had hoped that would change.
She threw on her overcoat. In an instant, she ripped open the door and was met by a blast of frigid air.
Paul clamored after her. “Camille!” He flew into the street and crossed his arms against the cold. “You must forgive her. She doesn’t know what she does. Pray for her; pray for acceptance.”
Camille’s unwelcome tears crystallized on her face in the icy wind. “Spare me your religious outpourings, Paul. How am I to forgive a woman who despises me? She has disowned me. Her own daughter! As if I don’t struggle enough. She regrets my existence, and you know that to be true.”
His face drooped and his shoulders fell in resignation. “But I wanted to spend more time with you. You have abandoned me in all of your success.”
She squeezed him with all her might. “I am not so very successful, brother. And I will never abandon you. There are not many I love in this world, yet you are among them.”
“I worry about you,” he whispered. “You cast off any sense of morals. You live in sin.”
Camille fastened the last of the buttons on her coat. “To pour your soul into something you love, to make it beautiful, is the highest form of spirituality there is. You understand that better than most, Paul. To share it with the world is to inspire the godliness you are so fond of. You should know this, yet you condemn me for it. Your writing means everything to you.”
“Not everything,” he said softly.
“I’m going home.” She pulled her hat down for good measure and raced down the street against the black cold.
A drumming sound beat inside Camille’s head, or was it in the wall? She rolled over on her belly and covered her head with a pillow. She wished everything would fade away. All she wanted was sleep.
The drumming grew louder.
“Open the door, Camille!” Auguste’s muffled voice pounded between her ears, behind her eyes, in her chest.
Auguste was the cause. This was his fault. He had sucked her into his world, taken her into his care, his little mistress, and paraded her around so he could feel like a man.
To take credit for your work. He doesn’t love you. He uses you.
“Shut up!” she screamed. The Voice had plagued her since that horrible day when the rejection had come—the day Mother had turned her back on her for good. She groaned at the pain. And what of the voices? She had gone mad! Insane like the men who shuffled through the city streets, mumbling to themselves in the seedy parts of town, or those wretched souls who were locked away in a tower. She sobbed, soaking her sheets with bitter tears.
She would be one of them, locked away from the world.
The drumming came again. “I am coming in!” Auguste called.
She sat up and pushed her gnarled locks off her face.
“Don’t come in! I don’t want you here.”
The turn of key in lock, the creak of door hinges, and his footsteps boomed in the ceiling, against the walls. Camille covered her ears and fell back against her pillows. “Please,” she whimpered. “Leave me alone.”
The booming ceased next to her bed and a shadow fell over her. “Darling, you have not been to work all week,” Auguste said. “Are you ill?”
She ran a hand over her rumpled chemise and pulled the bedcovers to her chin. “I don’t want to work today. I’m too tired.”
He frowned and sat beside her. “You have been in bed for more than a week.”
She threw her arm across her eyes. “They don’t want me.”
He stroked her hair. “Who doesn’t want you?”
He will seduce you, have his way with you, and leave you with nothing. Just like the others. Push him away! Bite him!
She thrashed in the covers. “Make it stop!”
“I am here.” Auguste scooped her up and held her close, rubbing her back.
“The Voice.” Camille quivered in his arms. “It taunts me and tells me to do terrible things.”
“Let my voice be louder.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids. “Je t’aime.”
His voice will stamp out your own. He sets you on fire and watches you burn in agony.
“Je t’aime,” he said again, cradling her gently in his arms.
She burrowed closer to him. The soothing scent of his skin wrapped around her like a blanket.
“I am here,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “I will help you. We must find a way to treat this . . . thing that has seized you. We’ll find a doctor.”
“No!” she said. “They will lock me up with the crazies.”
Auguste stared at her as if unsure how to respond. Finally he said, “Very well, but I don’t want you to spend so much time alone.”
“But they don’t want me,” she said with labored breath.
“Who, mon amour?”
“The town council, the ministers—or Mother. There’s to be no republican statue, no commissions. Mother has banished me from the house. The old cow. She was sewing baby clothes for my dead brother!” She peered at him through swollen eyes. “She has lost it, Auguste. And I’m”—a sob rose up in her throat—“I am like her.”
He cradled her face in his hands. “Écoute-moi. You are a true artist. Do not let those . . . those rudimentary—”
“Blowhards!”
His eyebrows shot up in a question.
“Paul has befriended several American writers.”
He smiled and gathered her hands to his lips. Her humor had returned. “Do not allow those blowhards to rattle your confidence. You have never allowed them to in the past. Don’t begin now. We will show them your wonderful pieces and one day, they will feel foolish.” He kissed her forehead. “As for your mother, she is a simple woman who is both jealous and frightened of your talents. Your brilliance instigates fear. I have suffered from it myself for many years.”
“I despise how my sex defines me in their eyes.” The words left a bitter residue on her tongue. “It does not make me less of a sculptor.”
“Quite the opposite.” He squeezed her hands. “You are one of a kind, my darling, and one day they will champion your work. But you must be strong.”
Camille melted in his embrace once more. She would fight the men controlling her fate the only way she knew how—by creating more, by pushing harder, by leaving them breathless with emotion when they examined her sculptures. They could not force her to create something banal, a betrayal of her luminous inspiration. She would not ignore her need to portray beauty.
“I will heat some water for a bath,” Auguste said. “Take some time to soak and relax, and then we’ll meet Mathias for dinner. He has an idea for a commission for you. The bust you made of my large head is exquisite.” He smiled.
“You love only yourself.” She punched him playfully in the arm.
Auguste’s laughter bellowed, sending a warm rush, the first in a week, through her body. She gathered her hair and twirled the ends together into one long, twisted mass and slipped out of bed.
She would try again.
Chapter 30
Auguste turned to a clean page in his ledger and sorted his bills into piles. He had been in a foul mood all week—ever since he’d received word the ministers did not care for his design of Hugo, slated to be placed in the Panthéon. If he did not have their blessing, the commission would go to someone else. He glanced at the clock on his studio wall. Any minute, he would have his answer. He must control his emotions. Losing his temper would not help his cause.
Monsieur Blanchet knocked at the office door.
“Entrez.”
The gentleman entered, removed his hat, and turned it round and round in his hands. “Monsieur Rodin.” He nodded.
Auguste’s mood darkened further. The man had bad news.
“I will come right to the point,” Blanchet said. “We have decided against your piece for the Panthéon.”
Auguste tossed his quill pen on the desk. “I give you an innovative design, something powerful, but you wish for trite and overwrought. Something Victor Hugo would be appalled by if he were still alive.”
Monsieur Blanchet grimaced and looked at the floor. He was a timid gentleman and clearly felt uncomfortable delivering such news.
“Merde!” Auguste shouted. To hell with tempering his emotions.
Monsieur Blanchet’s shoulders sagged like those of a scolded schoolboy. “But wait, Monsieur Rodin. It is not a complete loss. I made a proposal to the committee on your behalf and they have accepted it—if you agree, that is.”
“Go on,” Rodin said through gritted teeth.
“We’d like to keep your version of Hugo and place it in a garden in Paris, and commission another. One that matches the proportions needed for a building as grand as the Panthéon.”
Auguste went silent. He did not have time for a second monument, and yet, this was not only a generous offer; he was certain it was the only offer he would receive. If he did not comply, they would ask Jules Dalou. And he’d rather lose an arm than let that happen.
“I expect to be well paid,” Auguste said at last. He pointed to the door of his atelier. “And you may see yourself out.”
Blanchet paled. “Monsieur Rodin, I—”
“I accept.” Auguste grabbed a nearby maquette and squashed the form between his strong hands. “Now, as you can see I am extremely busy. I have another masterpiece to throw together.”
Blanchet’s jaw set in a grim line. “Good day, monsieur. I look forward to your next concept.”
Once the man had left, Auguste threw the wad of clay with all his might, knocking a study of Camille to the ground. The piece cracked open on impact.
The swish of buffing cloth over marble soothed Camille’s nerves. She dipped her cloth once more in the polish made of pulverized lamb bone, and rubbed the bust of La Petite Châtelaine with a loving hand. In truth, the piece needed no more polishing—its diaphanous surface already gleamed. But Camille needed to keep her hands busy. Monsieur Dayot, fine arts minister, would arrive any moment to assess both the plaster and stoneware versions of The Waltz. The overwhelming positive response at the Salon last month had captured his interest—proof that what she needed to succeed was to be seen.
She wiped her brow with her arm. The sour odor of nervous sweat permeated her dress sleeves. It was unfortunate she must meet the minister before she’d had a bath. She looked down at her trembling hands. She must gather her wits. She grabbed the carafe of wine on her worktable and filled a glass to the brim before gulping it down. Her future lay in Monsieur Dayot’s hands. If he liked the piece, he would recommend it to the fine arts director for purchase in marble or bronze. She needed the money—and the recognition—desperately.
A tapping at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“J’arrive!” She removed her stained smock and opened the atelier door.
Monsieur Dayot was a smartly dressed, handsome man with high cheekbones and silky auburn hair. A cigarette dangled from his full bottom lip. “Mademoiselle Claudel?” The cigarette tumbled to the ground. He covered it with his foot and twisted several times with force. After inspecting it, he stamped on the stub again to verify the fiery glow had been snuffed out.
Camille raised an eyebrow at his vehemence. “I’m certain we have no chance of fire.”
Monsieur Dayot laughed and his cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “My cousin’s house caught fire from a cigarette and they lost everything they owned. One must be vigilant.”
“And vigilant you were, monsieur,” Camille said, not bothering to hide her amusement. She motioned him inside. “You are here to see The Waltz? Right this way.”
He followed her indoors, pausing to take in her work space: the secondhand worktables stacked with abandoned maquettes, a few chairs crusted with dried plaster, and a myriad of pedestals and wire armatures.
“I will show you The Waltz, of course, but would you care to see anything else?” Camille did not wait for his response, but moved around the room removing sheets and towels from her works.
Monsieur moved from one bust to another. “You created this without assistance?” He touched the cool marble bust of La Petite Châtelaine. “Your tutor is Monsieur Rodin, yes?”
“No one assisted me. Well, except for the fairies and elves that sneak into my studio at night.”
“The elves?” He laughed, a smart, short laugh reserved for noblemen and those who are impressed by their own power.
“Why, of course.” She smiled to soften her sarcasm. “Let us be honest, monsieur. No woman could do such work without help. We both know that to be a fact.”
Monsieur Dayot gazed at her as if deciding whether or not she was serious or speaking in jest.
She smiled and led him to a stand near the window. “Here is The Waltz.”