by Heather Webb
Two dancers whisked over a dance floor in a passionate stance, their faces emblazoned with the rapture of music, of love and uncertainty of their future.
His eyes widened. “I am speechless.”
She smiled. “I hope that is a positive reaction.”
“The movement is magnificent. They appear alive.” He bent closer to examine each surface. “But the sensuality . . . it’s erotic.” His face flamed at the word.
Camille had never seen a man blush so often.
“And they are nude,” he continued.
“Why, yes they are,” she said, her tone light. “There is nothing more beautiful than the human form, wouldn’t you agree?”
He moved around the piece slowly, a frown ever present on his features.
He doesn’t like it. Save yourself the humiliation. Smash it with a broom handle!
The Voice. Camille froze. Why did it have to come now? She glanced around the room, suddenly frantic.
Monsieur bent over the piece, absorbed.
She moved swiftly to the wine carafe, poured, and took several large swallows. She would drown the hateful words.
“Their organs are rather close.” Monsieur Dayot straightened. “This piece would scandalize the director. Perhaps if you clothed the pair—”
“Clothed?” Her voice cracked. “Their nudity adds to the pair’s sensuality, their longing. To cover their forms would hide all that is striking about this piece. Such prudery is antithetical to my vision.”
He stiffened. “I cannot recommend this in good faith as it is. The sensuality overwhelms the piece. The director would not agree to something so erotic made by a woman’s hands. I’m sorry. You clearly have talent, but the image is too profane.”
Desperation clawed at her hope. “If I rework the piece, will you reconsider?”
“I don’t know—”
“Please, monsieur. You said yourself I am talented. Give me a chance to prove it.”
He turned back to the piece and stared at it for a long moment. “Very well.”
A rush of air left her lungs. “Thank you. I will send word when it has been adjusted and is complete.”
Monsieur Dayot stalked to the door and placed his hat on his head. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Camille closed the door behind him. Monsieur Dayot was handsome and self-assured. He must have had lovers. How could he see this piece as profane?
Because you are a harlot. You sell yourself and he can see that plainly.
“No!” She squeezed her eyes closed against the wretched voice that belittled her at every turn. “Leave me alone!”
She poured herself another glass of wine.
Camille lifted the edge of her gown and stepped over a puddle in the street. The odor of urine burned her nostrils and she increased her pace. A romp through Montmartre meant an assault of odors: Fresh baked bread alternated with human waste; savory pork crackling mingled with cheap perfume wafting from brothel doorways. By day, artists littered the streets; by night, the whores, thieves, and those seeking entertainment of the most sinful kind emerged. A city within a city, boasting a colorful gluttony of pleasure. Camille squeezed Auguste’s arm. She had looked forward to going to the infamous Le Chat Noir since she’d arrived in Paris more than a decade ago. Her former male classmates had raved about the club. Polite society considered it an abhorrence, which made it all the better, she thought.
“They want me to start over.” Auguste matched her stride.
He had been chattering about his commission, though Camille found it hard to focus on his words. Too many sights and sounds swirled around her.
“I can’t believe they did not like Hugo,” she said. “What faults could they possibly see in it?”
A metallic tang tingled in the back of her throat. She wet the pad of her tongue against the roof of her mouth in an effort to dissolve the taste—the warning that the Voice was hovering on the edge of her mind.
Not tonight, she pleaded. She wanted to enjoy herself.
“They did not like the shape of the base or Hugo’s state of undress,” Auguste said. “But I covered his manhood, for Christ’s sake.”
“When will you cease to care about their opinions? You are established. You have many admirers and regular work.” She pushed away the envy that curled her toes when she compared his success to her struggle.
“I can’t just ignore their request. It’s Victor Hugo.” Auguste tucked his hand under her elbow and maneuvered her around a gaggle of rowdy bourgeois, decked in top hats and their best suits. They waited for Moulin de la Galette to open, though they had clearly been drinking for hours.
“Soûlards,” he muttered.
“Precisely,” Camille said, ignoring the pack of drunks. “It’s Victor Hugo—the very reason you should cling to your vision. The man would balk at a trite representation of himself. And the public would shrug at another hero in bronze, volume tucked under his arm, or worse, a sword in his hand to slay injustice.” She rolled her eyes at the thought.
When they reached 12 Rue Victor Massé, they joined the steady line of patrons streaming inside Le Chat Noir. The converted house rocked on its foundation to the beat of a party tune on the piano, and the hum of laughter and voices. Light blazed in every window. Camille glanced up at a sign swinging from its balustrade: A black cat sat on its hind end, its feline grin an invitation to join the mischief.
A smile played on her lips. “I wonder which part I will like best.”
“Rodolphe Salis is hilarious,” Auguste said. “You will appreciate his humor.”
“The host?”
“And owner, yes.” He held the door open for her.
A piano and platform sat opposite the entrance, flanked by dozens of tables. Paintings and gilded mirrors covered the walls, and statuettes of cats poised to leap from their sconces decorated every corner of the room. Patrons in glittering evening gowns or silk laughed, sipped their alcohol-laden beverages, and cheered for the chansonnier, who concluded the final note of a bawdy tune.
Camille peered through the cloud of cigarette smoke in search of an empty table.
“On the second floor there’s a shadow theater. Mostly artists and writers loiter there.” Auguste motioned to the staircase.
The mention of writers brought Paul to mind, and her promise. “I need to ask you something.”
“Here?” He frowned.
“Now, or I will forget after a few drinks. It’s about my brother.”
Auguste grunted. “Your brother who despises me.”
“He wants what is best for me,” she shouted over her shoulder as they wound through the room. With each step, she peeled her shoes from the sticky floor. By the staircase, she paused. “He has applied to be a foreign diplomat, but he needs a reference from someone well connected. That someone could be you—if you are willing, that is.”
“I can’t imagine it will do him much good, but I’ll send a recommendation. For you, not for him.”
She smiled, relieved to have that task out of the way. Despite the men’s mutual dislike of one another, they both loved her, and that still meant something.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Auguste asked.
“Let’s.” Camille lifted two glasses of brown liquid from a server’s tray and started up the stairs.
“You had better pay for that, lady,” the man said through a thick black mustache.
Camille eyed his sweat-stained shirt and damp hair, then sipped from one of the glasses without bothering to retrieve her coins. Surely he would offer a lady a drink?
Embarrassment crossed Auguste’s face. He retrieved a franc from his pocket and laid it on the man’s tray. The man did not thank him for the generous gratuity, but continued to snake through the crowd, balancing the nearly full tray over the heads of seated patrons.
“You do lov
e to tease them, don’t you?” Auguste said.
Camille placed a wet kiss on his cheek, leaving an imprint of her rouged lips on his skin. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and glanced around the room.
She noticed his unease. “I can’t mark you as mine?” Though her tone was light, her mood shifted. Earlier, Auguste had wanted to show everyone their love; now he appeared . . . embarrassed. Or perhaps he was hiding something. Another lady friend? A heaviness lodged in her gut.
“Isn’t it obvious I belong to you?” he asked.
He claimed to be hers, yet he still slept in another woman’s house. Camille chewed the inside of her cheek to hold back her words.
“This way, darling.” He led her up the staircase.
They slid into the few remaining empty seats.
“Monsieur Rodin!” a gentleman said. He had a pointed beard that looked like a goat’s and melancholy eyes. Camille knew that face—she’d seen the famous gentleman once before at a salon, though they had not met. Émile Zola, journalist and author, president of the Société des Gens de Lettres.
“Monsieur Zola!” Auguste shook the writer’s hand briskly. “Do you frequent Le Chat Noir?”
“I wouldn’t say I frequent the place, no. I visit occasionally.”
Auguste motioned to Camille. “May I present Mademoiselle Claudel? She is a student—”
“Yes, I know who she is,” Zola said, tipping his head in her direction. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.”
She frowned, confused by his statement. Had Zola seen her at the salon that evening when too much absinthe had been poured? He couldn’t have. They had been in the same room only once the entire night and were never introduced.
“Do we know each other, monsieur?” she asked.
“We have not met, no.” Zola’s eyes gleamed with an unknown emotion. Condescension? Perhaps he had heard rumors of her liaison with Auguste and regarded her as a young plaything—not the respected artist she should be known as. The metallic tang on her tongue grew stronger, but she managed a tight smile.
“How is the monument coming along, Auguste?” Zola stroked the tip of his beard. “My anticipation to see your Balzac grows every day.” He adjusted his spectacles, though they did not need adjusting. “I have assured the société of your talent—and that the piece will be finished on time.” A not-so-subtle hint that Auguste produce, or the société would decide against purchasing his Balzac.
A retort dangled from the tip of Camille’s tongue. She took another drink from her glass to wash it down. It would not help Auguste’s cause.
“A masterpiece takes time.” Auguste’s eyes turned grim. “Something with nouveau lines, a fresh perspective.”
“Can I get you anything to drink, Monsieur Rodin?” A woman in an ill-fitting corset leaned over their table. Her breasts appeared as if they might spring free at any moment, layers of shiny beads sat atop them, and netted gloves squeezed the flesh on her arms.
Camille eyed the woman coldly. How did she know Auguste?
The blare of music from the first floor thumped in her ears. The tap of the woman’s finger on her tray beat against her skull.
Tap, tap, tap.
Auguste smiled. “Bonsoir. I’d like a brandy.” He put his hand beneath Camille’s elbow. He nodded to the two glasses on the table before her. “Are you happy with that concoction or would you like a proper drink?”
Tap, tap, tap.
She gulped the remainder of her drink down and sucked in a steadying breath.
“I guess she’ll have another,” the woman said, showing a toothless smile.
Had Auguste slept with this woman? Or perhaps tucked change in her bosom for a kiss? She clutched the arms of her chair. He meant to drive her out, once he had drained her of inspiration, or stolen all her ideas. The image of her Young Girl with a Sheaf flashed in her mind. Her throat clogged with emotion.
Tap, tap, tap.
She despised it—this mind of hers played tricks on her. The noise, her senses, the Voice.
“What is it?” Auguste peered into her face. “Do we need to leave?”
Her eyes darted from the woman’s overt leer to Zola’s proud countenance, and back to Auguste’s worried expression. She yanked on the faux-ruby cameo encircling her neck. She couldn’t breathe.
He will suffocate you. Auguste will smother you with false affection and leave you for his band of pirates to poison you, finish you off.
Camille stood quickly, knocking the table. Her second drink, still untouched, wobbled uncertainly for an instant, then tipped. Its contents splashed the gown of the woman serving them.
“What is the matter with you?” She turned her furious glare on Camille.
“Perhaps now you’ll find a dress that fits,” Camille snapped.
The woman drew herself up to her full height, compressing her bosom further. The pressure on the stays was too much. A lace snapped and her naked breast bounced into plain view.
“Oh!” She frantically stuffed the large mound into her corset. “I apologize, messieurs.” Monsieur Zola stared in horror.
Blaring music, the laughter, the stabbing light. Nausea swam in Camille’s stomach. Auguste’s concerned face hovered near hers. “Get me out of here,” she said. “My head.”
He gave a quick conciliatory explanation to Zola.
Laughter, singing, and the roar of voices hovered in the space around her and pressed upon her. She tugged at her cameo once more and stumbled toward the staircase.
“Camille, wait!” Auguste followed her.
A black weight crushed her. She leaned against the stairwell wall, panting.
“What is the matter?” He reached for her and slipped his arm about her. “Are you unwell?”
“It won’t stop. The Voice, the noise.” She melted against him in defeat. “I can’t make it stop.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He is the reason. He makes the Voice come.
She squeezed her eyes closed. Was it his fault? She didn’t know what was real anymore.
“Shhh.” He stroked the soft skin of her neck. “I am here, amour.”
Camille tucked herself in his embrace and let him lead her home.
Chapter 31
“Don’t cry.” Paul rubbed Camille’s back. “It will happen, but you must believe. ‘The darkest hour of the night is just before the turning of the morning,’ as the psalm says. You’re nearly there, sister. I have been praying for you.”
Camille leaned against her brother on the park bench. She had spent six months reworking The Waltz and Monsieur Dayot had approved the new piece with delight. He had even secured six thousand francs for an advance—until the director of fine arts voided the commission on the grounds of it being inappropriate.
A torrent of tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. “It’s hopeless. I give up.”
Paul held her at arm’s length. “So that’s it? You are finished, then? You won’t sculpt any longer?”
Not sculpt? The thought made her insides turn to sand. Who would she be without her art? She had nothing. She was no one. Even to Auguste she was an addendum, just someone to soothe his loneliness and make him feel a man.
This is his fault! He turned them against you. He fears your ability and will not stop until he destroys you.
“What is it?” Paul asked. “Your eyes—are you ill?”
“It’s the Voice. It haunts me. It makes me do things. . . .”
“You must stop chastising yourself.” He embraced her. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself. If you spent some time in prayer, you would feel better.”
Paul did not understand; neither did Auguste. She tried to explain, but each time she spoke of the Voice, they looked at her as if she had three heads. Perhaps hers was broken.
Camille wiped her eyes with her sle
eve. “I am nothing without my art.”
“That isn’t true!” He shook her slightly. “You’re a beloved sister, a daughter. It’s true you have a gift, but use it another way. Teach others and create for the love of your art rather than to make a name for yourself. As you used to,” he added softly.
“Teach others? As in students?” She recoiled in revulsion. “Why on earth would I do that? I have no interest in wasting my time on amateurs.” And she did not like people all that much. They looked down on her—or betrayed her.
“There is more to you . . . and to life. You are well loved.”
“By whom, exactly?” she said. “You and Papa?”
“And that adulterer who shall remain nameless.”
The one who will destroy you.
Camille shook her head.
“What is it?” Paul asked.
“You would be fulfilled without your quill pen and paper because tutoring and a family’s love is enough?”
He looked down.
“Just as I thought. You would no sooner give up your passion than I would.”
“I would become a disciple of God.” He sniffed. “If he wished for me to give up my writing, I would.”
“Do not make me vomit, Paul. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Camille stood and paced across the lawn, leaving him alone on the park bench. He could be so infuriating with his self-righteous, godly existence. It made her want to strike him. The worst part was she knew he lied to her face. He would no sooner give up his writing than she would her art.
“Wait!” He raced after her, keeping pace with her rapid strides. “Listen to me. I understand. I would do the same in your position.”
She stopped and met his eyes with a stony glare. “But you aren’t, are you? In my position.”
“I will help you.” He squeezed her hands in his. “Once I have made a name for myself.”
“With two published works, you are well on your way.” She threw her head back and gazed up at the sky, willing herself to control her emotions. She detested the jealousy she felt for her own brother. The shame of it made her hate herself.