by Heather Webb
Monsieur le Maire and his wife strolled through the atelier, pausing to admire a smattering of busts and half-finished statues.
“Good day, Monsieur Rodin,” the Mayor said when he had joined Auguste by the marble station. The abundance of pomade in his hair made him look like a greased weasel.
“Monsieur le Maire.” Auguste shook his hand. “Madame.”
“I see you are hard at work.”
Auguste said, “An artist’s work is never done.”
They chatted politely for a few moments until Madame Maire grew restless and began to look around. Auguste glanced at the marble block where his model hid. He needed to move them to the next station so the naked man could escape unseen.
“I’ve heard we have monuments to Balzac and Baudelaire to look forward to as well,” the mayor said.
The model peeked out from behind his cover.
“Quite right,” Rodin said absently. He kept his eyes glued on the mayor’s wife. The marble room sat opposite the model’s hiding place, but if he could stand in front of it . . . “Would you care to see the marble room?”
The woman’s face perked up at the suggestion. Auguste inched toward the hiding place to intercept Madame Maire—too late.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I never!”
The model bowed. “Madame Maire, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
A dainty hand shielded her eyes. “Why on earth are you hiding in the nude?”
“To shield you from my naked ass, madame.”
More laughter rippled through the atelier. Monsieur le Maire chuckled at the impropriety.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” Auguste said. “I would be honored to show you the variety of stones we use.”
Crimson stained her cheeks. “Yes, please.”
Auguste smothered a sigh. The last thing he needed was to waste time playing host. Balzac awaited. But one could not turn away an important guest, especially an important one who might lobby to secure him funding.
Though Auguste thought it impossible, the crowd grew after luncheon at the Salon. Seven thousand works, he had been told, graced the vast space of la Galerie des Machines, the very same that had housed the Exposition Universelle almost ten years earlier. Monument to Balzac, in all its revolutionary glory, stood positioned in the center of the hall, just down from The Kiss.
Auguste found the juxtaposition of the two works ironic: the one, a monument to his enduring love for Camille; the other, a representation of the changing art world—the pivot to his aesthetic.
“It is a chef d’oeuvre.” Gustave Geffroy motioned to Balzac. “A monument to modern sculpture.”
“Thank you,” Auguste said. “Seven years of my life and my final state commission. This one nearly killed me.”
Gustave eyed his friend with curiosity. “And The Gates of Hell? It will remain unfinished?”
“I’m not dead yet.”
Geffroy laughed, then drank from his brandy glass. He wiped his mustache with a handkerchief after each drink. Auguste had never heard the serious man so much as chuckle. He considered Geffroy’s amusement a victory.
“Rodin!” Octave Mirbeau spotted them through the crowd and made his way to their side. “Congratulations. It’s an absolute marvel.” He clapped him on the back.
“So Balzac isn’t a slab of beef?” Auguste asked. “A snowman beginning to melt? Or my personal favorite, it’s Balzac in a straitjacket being led to an asylum.”
Octave chuckled, his wing-shaped mustache looking more comical than ever. He stopped abruptly when he noticed Rodin’s expression. “Those criticisms are from the bons bourgeois. They know nothing of art. Surely you aren’t listening to them?”
“And Zola?” Auguste challenged him. “He hasn’t answered my letters.”
“He has been busy, I suspect.” Octave sounded amused.
“J’accuse!” The three men said in unison.
Zola’s newspaper article accused the government of anti-Semitism for condemning a Jewish man without proof, creating national outrage.
“It’s about time someone stood up for the poor bastard. Dreyfus is innocent,” Geffroy said.
“Don’t say that too loudly or you’ll find yourself in a brawl,” Octave replied. “There are plenty who would like to see him hanged.”
Auguste shuffled his feet. He knew better than to state his views about the exiled soldier. To be vocal about such a volatile topic could undermine his connections. The country had been divided on the integration of Jews since the Middle Ages. He would not dip his toe in that pool. It could be career suicide.
Octave’s dark eyes widened. Geffroy and Rodin followed his gaze to a clot of artists and spectators gathering around Balzac. As the group grew larger, the din boomed from the rafters of the glass building. Several gentlemen shouted at each other and waved their arms about as if preparing to fight.
“What are we waiting for?” Octave said, a gleam in his eye. He always liked a good story. “Let’s see what all the commotion is about.”
Gustave and Octave made their way to the monument, but Auguste remained rooted to the floor. Within moments, both gentlemen had joined a shouting match of their own.
Rodin eyed the crowd with apprehension. He neither knew nor cared why they argued, and to hear more mean-spirited comments about Balzac along with bearing Zola’s snub was too much to carry today. Weariness throbbed in his bones. He was an old man of fifty-eight, dressed in a black redingote, attending what felt like his funeral. The Monument to Balzac was complete; he was proud of the piece. He had nothing more to say on the topic. All he wished for was peace, a block of marble, and a quiet room. He sauntered silently, alone, toward the exit.
A golden tide of sunshine flowed through the windows and cascaded onto the floor. Camille cursed the blasted rays. Her head throbbed and the early summer heat did not help. Soon she’d have to leave the studio for food and wine after many days indoors. Weeks? She squinted at the blinding light. At least she’d managed a letter to Paul, who was far away in China. She had told him about the wretched clinic, about her confusion and remorse, though she didn’t know why. Paul had not comforted her in her time of need, but condemned her. He had called her a sinner, told her she had blackened her soul and would be damned unless she repented.
“‘Truly children are a gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward,’” Paul had quoted the Bible. “‘Thou shalt not kill’” and “‘Unrepentant murderers cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.’”
But Camille would never be fit for heaven. She had never been pure of heart or deed, a dutiful child—or adult, for that matter. She had merely followed her heart and her passion. Surely Paul’s God could understand that? And hell? What could be worse than the torment she now suffered? She boiled in her own hate—hatred of the ministers; of those who professed their friendship and love, yet abandoned her.
A new image had come to her in the night. A young woman on her knees, her hands in the air, imploring a man to stay with her, but a dark angel spirited him away, the angel of age. The Age of Maturity. She had scrambled on all fours to the desk and scratched the name and a rough outline of her vision on the back of an envelope.
She cackled at the irony—a new idea recorded on the envelope carrying her latest rejection. She had her art in spite of them! She would make more beautiful things for the world, whether they wanted them or not. And one day, someone would look on her collection and be grateful, inspired. She still believed that. They could not defeat her.
She launched herself to her feet. “Screw them all!” She stumbled over a chair leg and fell face forward. Her abdomen smashed against the floor. She cried out and clutched her middle.
A pointless gesture.
“Thank God there is no baby,” she said bitterly, to no one. The feeling she had done the right thing had yet to flood her senses. What would fill the gap
ing cavity in her chest? Instead, her disquietude was the final stroke in a barrage of loss.
“When?” she screamed. When would it be gone? The guilt, the horror of that day. The grief for all she had lost.
Paul had lectured her. “You serve your art, but it consumes you as greed would. And that is all this is, Camille. Your lust for success has no merit. Repent and find your strength. The voices you hear are a rebuke from the Devil.”
How she had wanted to scream when she had read his words. He parroted phrases that condemned a beloved sister in need of his help. The Voice was not a punishment, but a symptom of her regret. So much regret.
A thudding came at the door.
“Go away!” she said in an uneven timbre.
“Camille, it’s Auguste. Let me in.”
The Devil has come! He wants to cage you, drag you with him to hell.
She cradled her head in her hands. “I don’t believe in the Devil.”
But you do. You made a pact with him, don’t you remember? He is here for you.
More pounding. “Open this door or I’ll break it down!” he shouted. Auguste wouldn’t try to poison her in daylight, would he? “Camille!” If she did not open the door, the neighbors would give her trouble. “I need to see you,” he said.
She moved to the door and swung it wide. Auguste pushed inside and kissed her cheek in greeting, the way he would a friend. Camille’s arms dangled lifelessly at her side. What would she say to him?
He walked from one worktable to the next, studying a series of busts she had begun—all of young girls. “These are magnificent.” He fingered a groove of brow bone.
“Don’t touch them!” Her voice came out garbled, rusty from disuse. She moved frantically from one to the next, covering them with rags. She could not let him steal these from her as well.
“What could I possibly do to your portraits?”
“You rob me of my inspiration and call it your own.”
Auguste looked at her with a dull expression, as if all of his emotion had been drained from his body these past months of their separation. Until the sketch of The Age of Maturity caught his eye. He picked up the envelope to get a closer look. “Is this a farce of our lives together?” With his finger, he traced the drawing of a young woman on her knees. “You don’t intend to make this? I would be ridiculed.”
“You think this piece is about us and that vile woman, don’t you?” She scoffed at him. “You’re as self-centered as I always suspected you were. This woman represents youth; the man is the present and is being spirited away by the angel of age to the grave.”
He put down the sketch. “You have shut me out, Camille. I have made our love foremost, always, but you reject me.”
“Foremost? Like the afternoon you brought Rose to Villeneuve to humiliate me? Those many nights when you were finished with me and you returned to her? And then there is the matter of Rose trying to kill me, yet you comforted her. You escorted her home and you left me alone. With child.”
Silence echoed in the immeasurable space between them.
“You are pregnant?” Emotions warred on his face. He glanced down at her abdomen. “When? When are you—”
“There is no child.”
“You have terminated it? God, Camille.” He clenched his fists. “You didn’t even speak to me about it. A child with you . . .” He rushed toward her. “Mon amour, if I had known.”
She stepped out of his reach. “And what would we have done then? You would continue to spend all of your hours in the studio while I chased the babe?” A high-pitched laugh escaped her lips. “That’s how you would have wanted it, isn’t it? To keep me out of the way.”
His face twisted in pain. “How can you say that? I have loved you since the moment I met you. I will never love anyone the way I do you.”
“Yet you would not leave Rose to be with me, make an honest woman of me.”
He stood stock-still. The silence grew as her stare burned through him. In a soft voice, he said, “Why didn’t you come to me first? We could have talked about our options at the very least.”
“The Voice told me what I should do.”
“The voices are back?” He stroked the soft spot on his beard in agitation.
“It never left.”
He reached out to her. “Let me help you. I can find someone—”
“You have helped enough.” She motioned to the door. “Now, get out. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Desperation crossed his face. “Camille, don’t do this!” He yanked her arm and crushed her against him.
“Let go of me!” A desperate panic rose inside her. He would crush her and do away with her! She pushed against his chest. “Leave me!”
He tightened his hold. “No.”
“You’re a coward!” she screeched as panic strangled her.
He held her fast against him. After several minutes of struggle, she relaxed. “Let me help you,” he whispered in her ear.
“You have helped enough. I never want to see you again. I mean it, Auguste. The sight of you, your scent, your art make me sick.”
He released her.
“Just go.” She wrapped her arms around herself, the fire of her anger suddenly extinguished. A chill cooled her blood and penetrated her bones until her teeth began to rattle.
Tears shone in his eyes.
“I have made the great man cry.” She mocked him.
“More than you will ever know.” He fumbled for the handkerchief in his pocket before moving to the door. He paused to look at her a last time. “Good-bye, Camille.”
“Don’t you mean good riddance? You are free of me.”
“I will never be free of you,” he said, voice soft.
With that, he disappeared through the door.
Auguste sat across from Cazin, Monet, and several other members of the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts. They discussed matters of the next salon and various topics, but Rodin had barely heard a word. He stared into the bottom of his beer glass. He could have had a child with Camille, but now it was finished. They were finished. For good. Each time the sorrow drained away, it welled inside him once more until it oozed from his pores. He ran his fingertip around the edge of his glass. Yet despite the pain, his relief was still stronger. An illness had seized her beautiful and terrible mind and she could not prevent it, nor control it. She could not raise a child. She could scarcely support herself, but still, she turned away the money he had sent. An exhaustion consumed him, one so profound, some days he could not leave his bed.
The pitch of the conversation around him changed.
Claude opened a clipping of newspaper. “Auguste, have you seen this?” Monet smoothed the rumpled paper clipping, smudging the black ink. “Your Balzac is ‘the polemic of the moment. Before long it will be necessary to be for or against Rodin, as it is necessary to be for or against Esterhazy’.”
Monet scrutinized his face—for what, Auguste didn’t know. He had no opinion on the matter, at least not one he would share, and he knew for certain Claude was decidedly pro-Dreyfus.
“The journalists align your supporters with Dreyfus and the naysayers as traitors of the republic.” Monet drained his beer and speared a slice of cured ham with his fork.
“How they came to that conclusion baffles me,” Cazin said, then sipped from his brandy glass. “Zola is a Dreyfusard, yet he is the one who has denied Balzac—”
The stirrings of anger arose inside Rodin. “I’ve read them all. All of the spiteful reviews and hate directed at me. I am an artist, not a political tool. The bastards will ruin me.” His pulse thundered in his ears. “Now Descaves claims I am organizing a Jewish cavalry to overthrow the government. What complete nonsense is that? I’m an old man, for Christ’s sake.”
“Why don’t you take a stand?” Monet’s eyes challenged him.
Monet’s characteristic passion rose to the surface. “It’s an important national issue, Auguste. Why not speak out?”
“The Gens de Lettres have rejected the commission.” Auguste stood. “Zola has turned his back on me.” He waved his arm about in frustration. “I slave for them and they belittle me in their papers. Leave me with empty pockets. I have no interest in speaking out. It seems it has been done for me.” He ran a hand over his hair and put his beret firmly in place. “I’ve had enough.” He tossed a few coins on the table.
“Where the hell are you going?” Monet asked, his face scrunched.
“Away.” Auguste departed in a rush.
Speeding cabs, the prattle of omnibus over cobblestone, and the rush of people to and fro—all of it—bore down on him. When he reached his home, he slammed the door behind him.
“What’s happened?” Rose rushed to him from the salon.
“We’re leaving. Away from the city racket and these idiotic journalists. I need space from it all.”
Rose touched her lips in an attempt to hide her smile. “Whatever you wish, chéri.”
He uncurled his fists and took her in his arms. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she whispered.
“For always loving me. For standing beside me. I don’t deserve you, but I am grateful.”
She kissed him lightly. “You are my home.”
“We’ll go to Meudon after my meeting with Mathias at the end of the week.”
“Very well,” she said.
Auguste released her and clomped up the stairs to his office. He lit his lamp and a stray candle atop his desk. After riffling through a stack of articles and reviews, he formed them into a neat pile. One by one, he held the articles over the hungry flame and watched their edges singe and disappear.
Auguste wrapped his fingers around the heft of brick he’d found at the Dépôt des Marbres that morning. Someone had shattered one of the front windows of the atelier. It could have been a coincidence, but he wasn’t a betting man. Someone had sent him a warning. He glanced at a maquette of Balzac, one of his first studies. With a quick thrust, he launched the brick at the dried clay, knocking it over in one hit. He reached for the brick and pounded the statue, breaking its limbs, crushing the duck lips and large nose on the face of the man he had so wished to replicate. An angry laugh strangled his throat. He beat the statue again and again, until only rubble remained. Satisfied, he dropped the brick and brushed his hands against each other to dust off the debris.