Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  At that moment, Mathias rapped on the office door, in the rear of the atelier.

  “Come in.” Auguste said, breathless. He would make this meeting fast—he could not wait to leave.

  Mathias closed the door behind him. He raised an eyebrow at the dust covering Rodin’s suit before continuing. “I have good news. We’ve collected more than half of the sum we need to purchase Balzac from Zola and the Gens de Lettres. We’ll find a placement for him in Paris yet.

  Auguste shook his head. “I don’t intend to sell the piece. Please return the funds.”

  “You cannot be serious!” Mathias’s eyes bulged like a bulldog’s in his round face. “Hundreds have donated to see Balzac erected in public.”

  “I will not be associated with a public outcry. It would pit me against the other side. No,” Auguste said firmly. “My works represent a truth about humanity and I have no agenda other than illustrating the beauty of those truths.”

  “But if you withdraw it, your enemies will win.”

  “And who are my enemies?” He paced in the confined space. “The Gens de Lettres? The bourgeois? Or is it those who believe Dreyfus is an enemy of the Republic? I don’t know who they are! At any rate, I have written a rebuttal to the nonsense about my Jewish plot. It will run on the cover of L’Aurore. After that, I am finished with Balzac, once and for all. It will remain in my studio.”

  “But they will crucify you,” Mathias said.

  “They already have!” Auguste raised his voice. And he was done with it all.

  Mathias watched him in silence. “And those who champion your cause?”

  “Can do so without me. I appreciate their patronage and friendship, but I am not a political martyr. I am an artist.”

  “You flee confrontation.” Mathias’s chubby cheeks puffed indignantly. “But that is your choice.”

  His friend’s words stung. Auguste detested making impossible choices. Camille and Rose. Camille’s final letter had praised Balzac, and had given him greater happiness than all of the critics combined. She had found it perfect in its simplicity. She knew his heart, understood his longing, his vision. Yet he had not known his own—and he had left Camille for Rose again and again. Now it was done, just as he was.

  “Auguste?” Mathias leaned toward him, his round middle bumping the desk.

  “I won’t hold that comment against you because we’re friends,” he said. “You may sympathize with me, but you are not an artist. You can’t truly understand what it is to bear your soul for others to ridicule. I will not lay myself before the vultures so they can pick my bones clean.”

  All he wanted was the buzzards to leave him in peace. And her. God he still wished for her. But Camille was no more attainable than the minister’s approval—or pleasing anyone beyond himself.

  Mathias sighed and opened the door to go.

  “Wait.” Auguste stood. “Camille . . . She’s in desperate need of money. I’ve sent a student her way for tutoring, but she refused her. Can we find a way to secure a commission for her? Even a bronzing?”

  “I will do all I can.”

  He shook Mathias’s hand and gripped his arm with the other. “You are a good friend.”

  Chapter 34

  March 1913

  Drip, drip, drip.

  A trickle, unbearable in tenor, beat against the empty sound. A leak in the ceiling, perhaps? Or a rivulet of poison Auguste had dispensed to rid his world of her. Shredded paper curled from the vast plains of wall and disintegrated in the puddle-soaked floor in the apartment at the Quai de Bourbon. The smell of rotting garbage hung in the air, thick as a coastal fog.

  Camille kicked aside a pile of rubble and swung the mallet again. It connected with a terra-cotta bust, cracking it in two. She cared nothing for the pieces she had smashed.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  “Again!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. She pulverized the bust and its orange dust rained to the floor. The shattered sculpture would join the other worthless pieces, an array of busted heads and nymphs, shattered bodies, and children’s faces.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Camille panted; her breath billowed from her lips in little clouds. She hadn’t enough wood to heat the place more than a few days at a time. She looked around her atelier at a broken armchair, the dozens of empty wine bottles. But those did not pose a threat to her livelihood. No, it was the maquettes, all emblems of her precious ideas—she must smash them all before Rodin stole them away. He was a thief and a liar, a man absorbed only in his own fame, and he would stop at nothing to ruin her. She had seen his band of spies, waiting in the dark corners of the street to nab her and poison her. She shivered at the thought, suddenly glad she had barred her door with plywood. Yet the dripping—would it poison her? Her eyes darted from one leak in the ceiling to the next. She gripped her mallet in her hands once more.

  The Dawn, the portrait of a young girl’s face full of promise, caught her attention. The girl’s inquisitive eyes implored her to cease the destruction. Camille dropped her mallet and ran her hands over the smooth planes of the face and hair. The piece was too beautiful to destroy.

  “You must outlast me,” she whispered to the little girl. “Show them your beauty when I am gone.”

  In a sudden burst of energy, Camille jumped to her feet and raced around the room, sweeping dirt off of all her remaining pieces. “All of you. You will remain when I am dust. You must show them! Show them the power of your beauty.”

  It was true, and her heart was glad. Part of her would remain behind in this world, always. She could not be defeated!

  When Camille had cleaned the last sculpture, Minou—a new cat named after the first and just as beloved—stole out from behind her cover and butted her head against Camille’s leg. She scooped the cat up and snuggled her in the crook of her neck.

  “Are you hungry again? Maybe I can take you to Villeneuve to catch a bird or a mole. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, girl?” Her cats were the only ones who understood Camille, who had stayed with her through it all. The cat’s throat whirred in its comforting way. She licked Camille’s hand.

  Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

  Camille did not fight the Voice any longer. It came and went as it pleased, in time to torture her, and disappeared again. But she could not suppress it.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Her eyes fell upon a tear-stained letter on the desk. A wave of grief hit her with force. Papa was dead and in the cold ground. Mother had not informed her of his funeral, nor had Paul or Louise, and the ceremony had gone on without her. That was the day her destruction had commenced.

  A memory came, vivid as the day it had happened. Louise, Paul, and she had taken bread from the kitchen to feed the neighbor’s chickens.

  Paul slipped his hand into Camille’s, and Louise skipped after them. The brittle wind of Villeneuve pushed against their faces, yet they did not care. They ripped their hunks of bread into pieces and scattered it on the ground. The hens’ bobbing heads made them laugh as they raced toward the food. Their clucking and cooing was so satisfying.

  Young Camille tossed a ball of clay in the air and caught it, then launched it high again. The final time she caught the ball, she stopped to inhale its earthy scent.

  “Why do you love the dirt so much?” Louise asked her.

  Camille smiled. “I can shape it into something pretty and let it dry so it will last forever.”

  “The flowers don’t last forever,” Paul said in his little boy voice. “They die.”

  Papa joined them in the garden. “Are you going to make me something, Camille?” He gestured to the clay in her hand.

  “Yes,” she said. “A bird family. So they can peck at each other.”

  “Like we do.” Papa laughed and kissed
her on the head. “You are very good at making things, chérie.”

  A pang coursed through Camille’s body. She would never forget the sound of Papa’s laughter. She leaned her weary head against the wall in defeat. She couldn’t do it. Not this, not anymore. She needed help from someone—anyone willing to care for her, to show her the way out of this oblivion. But she had no one at all.

  An odd and distant thud resounded in the cluttered room. Someone was at the door?

  “Camille!” Paul’s voice cut into her consciousness. “Open the door! It’s me, Paul.”

  “Paul!” He was here! “Paul!” she screamed. Camille picked up her mallet once more and beat at the wood hammered tightly across the door. Her brother was here. He was really here! He had come for her. He had promised to be by her side, always, and he was here! At long last. He would rescue her from Rodin and his band.

  Another whack with the mallet and the wood cracked and split. She yanked at the splintered wood and unlocked the door.

  Paul burst inside. “God in heaven, Camille. What was all that noise?” His eyes grew round at the sight of the wreckage, and of her. “My dear sister, you are emaciated.” He stroked her bony cheek.

  Camille could not understand how she had come this far—how her life had sunk into despair. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn, so foolish.

  “It will be all right,” Paul said. “I am here to take care of you. I’m going to take you away.”

  She looked at him, confused.

  “Come.” He wrapped her in his coat and led her by the hand to the doorway.

  “Where are we going?” She pulled out of his grasp. “I can’t go out there. Rodin’s band will kidnap me.”

  Paul watched her closely. Finally, he said, “Monsieur Rodin has been shipped out to America. He won’t bother you now. You’re safe.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I’m going to bring you to a hospital, to make sure you are properly fed.”

  “No. His spies are everywhere. I won’t go.” Camille ran to the window and peered out, searching out the wicked men who watched her. But she did not see Rodin’s followers or the Devil himself. Perhaps she was safe with Paul at her side. Still, she must talk quickly and nail the door closed before Rodin returned.

  “You’ll only go to the hospital for a little while.” Paul cajoled her with a soft tone. “Until you’ve regained your strength and made your penance.”

  “Made my penance?” she asked, whirling around to face him.

  He pressed his lips together. “You have sinned against God, Camille, and now he punishes you.”

  “What are you talking about? Really, brother, sometimes I wonder if you have lost your mind.” Her harsh laughter split the air.

  The douceur left his voice and his blue eyes turned cold. “The abortion, of course. You have taken a life and now God has taken yours. You have lost your faculties. Some recovery time, some prayer, and you may yet be forgiven.”

  “God punishes me for being a woman!” Camille snarled.

  A team of horses pulling an enclosed wagon rounded the corner and pulled into the drive. Camille made out the words: L’Hôpital de Ville-Évrard.

  Paul pulled on her hand. “It is time.”

  “No! I’m not going with you! He will find me,” she hissed. “He will steal my work.”

  “Please, Camille, I’m trying to help you.” He gripped her arms. “Have I ever let you down?”

  She stared at him with incredulity. “Yes! The day you left for America, then China. The day you buried my father and didn’t tell me!” Her shrill voice echoed in the ceiling.

  “I have her,” Paul shouted to the men who had descended from the enclosed wagon. They filled the doorway with their dark coats and sullen faces. Rodin’s band—it was they! They had come for her!

  “No!” She stomped on Paul’s foot.

  He cursed and pulled her against him. “This is what is best for you. You will thank me one day. I will write to you, I promise.”

  Camille sank her teeth into the tender flesh between Paul’s thumb and forefinger and fled to the opposite side of the room. She ducked behind a partially dismantled armature fashioned in the likeness of a man. Minou jumped into her arms once more.

  “She’s there,” Paul said, motioning to her feeble hiding place.

  Paul was in on it! He worked with Rodin to lock her away. The pain of that realization ripped through her and filled her legs with lead. She sagged against the wood base of the armature. She could not escape him—Rodin would travel to the ends of the earth to find her. And with Paul in on it . . . with his God, she could not hide.

  A man with gray whiskers lunged at Camille from one side of the armature base. She shrieked and fled to the other side—into the arms of the other man. “Let me go!” she screamed.

  “Calm yourself,” Paul said. “We are here to help you.”

  As the men pushed Camille toward the door, Minou squirmed in her arms. A feral scream split the air. “Not through the door!” she screamed. “He’s there! He’s waiting for me in the alley.”

  Both men held her fast on either side.

  “Through the window,” she panted. “Please! You must sneak me out. Rodin will not see me if we are clever.”

  The Dark Men looked at each other and then to Paul. Her brother nodded and rushed to the window to unlatch it and swing the panes open. “I’ll help catch her on the other side.” He ran around the building to the front window.

  “Hurry!” Her eyes darted to the door. “He will be here soon.”

  The Dark Men lowered her over the edge of the windowsill and into Paul’s waiting arms. He clutched her tightly around the middle until the others joined him.

  Camille looked up at the rooftops of the neighboring building. A flock of ravens peered down at her. Les corbeaux—the keepers of secrets—smiled their vicious smiles. What did they know? Did they know when Rodin would come? Were the Dark Men here to help, or to take her straight to him? She glanced from one face to the other, her panic arising once more.

  “Come with us, mademoiselle.” One of the men held out his hand.

  They couldn’t make her go, could they? She glanced at the open window of her studio and an oppressive cloud suffocated her.

  “All will be well, sister,” Paul said. “You will find safety there, away from him. God will take care of you.”

  She nodded numbly. She didn’t know what she needed, but she could no longer face the days in the studio, alone.

  “Will you take care of her?” Camille asked, still clutching Minou to her chest. “While I am gone?”

  A tear slid down Paul’s face. He wiped it quickly and held out his hands. “Of course.”

  “I will rest and be well. I’ll come back for you soon.” She kissed the soft fur on Minou’s head. “And Paul? Will you take care of them, too? My sculptures?”

  More tears fell from his eyes. “Nothing would make me happier.” He brushed a matted lock of hair off her forehead and kissed her cheeks.

  Camille handed Minou to her brother, and glanced at her studio one last time. She did not regret her suffering or the perception it had brought; it had taught her everything—it was a gift, even, allowing her to know, to absorb the emotions of others in all their intimacy, so she might depict their joys or exquisite pain. The beauty—that which she left behind—would transcend the tragedy of her life. This truth tingled in the depths of her soul and somewhere within she was proud.

  Camille gathered her courage and blew Paul a last kiss.

  The Dark Men half-carried, half-dragged her to the wagon. She looked over her shoulder at her brother and cat, and the single bird with jet feathers that alighted in the courtyard.

  This bird knew her, her dark companion since the very beginning.

  “It is done,” she whispered.

  Epilogue

  “I visited our
friend two days ago.” Mathias frowned, an unusual expression on his jovial face.

  Auguste felt a familiar pang. It had been years since he had laid eyes on Camille, yet a day did not pass without a reminder of her, even if in some small way. “Was she at home?” he asked. “I arranged another commission for her, but that was months ago now. I never heard a thing about it.”

  “Her studio looked abandoned,” Mathias said quietly. He paused, as if weighing his words carefully. “I peeked in the windows and the place appeared as if it had been ransacked by thieves. Something didn’t feel quite right so I inquired with mademoiselle’s family.”

  Auguste’s chest tightened. “Go on.”

  “She has been committed. To the asylum at Ville-Évrard by her brother Paul and her mother.”

  He sat very still as a tide of pain, then pity rolled through him. After a long moment he stood. “I have to go.”

  “But our dinner should arrive any minute,” Mathias said, placing his hand on his distended abdomen.

  “I’ll pay you for mine later.”

  Mathias sighed. “You still care for her.”

  “I do not exist a single moment without loving her.” Auguste’s words came out strangled. He stuffed his hands into the sleeves of his coat and left the restaurant. He knew Camille had been ill. Still, he could not wrap his mind around its truth. She was gone—locked in a facility where no one loved her, and that crazed brother of hers condemned her as if he knew better than God.