Paris Kiss (4 page)

Chapter 5

That first summer in Paris! Every day was an adventure shared with Camille. We were each other's constant companions. There were two other English women who also shared the
atelier
, Amy Singer and Emily Fawcett, and they were pleasant enough, but Camille and I preferred to be alone. We went to the studio when we knew Amy and Emily would be out. Camille and I worked furiously, encouraging each other to get through difficulties and breaking off for coffee and cigarettes around our rickety tea chest. I still miss those conversations, as intimate and absorbing as a dance. I've never since been able to talk so freely and deeply to anyone. I took it all for granted then, the ease between Camille and me, and assumed we would be friends for life. I can still see the careful way she listened to me, her intelligent eyes fixed on mine as I talked, the way she would pause with that slight frown while she considered her response.

When we weren't working in the studio, we explored Paris, copying the Masters in the Louvre and the Luxembourg Palace, visiting the prison where the inmates would sit for us for a few
sous
, or sketching the cadavers at the anatomy school in a fug of chemical fumes.

That long, happy summer took on a dangerous, but more exciting, edge when we met Rosa. Camille and I were in the Bois de Boulogne sketching in the suffocating heat of a closed cab. If you were a woman artist, it was hopeless to try and work
en plein air
and capture the street scenes. Within minutes, men would gather round like a cloud of gnats, asking idiotic questions and making lewd remarks. I had tried it once and given up in disgust when some oaf tried to put his hands on me. The only way to work in peace was in a cab, but the day was hot and we were sweating in our corsets and heavy skirts. It was torture to be in the
fiacre
, which smelled of stale cigars and perfume, instead of under the cool green canopy of a chestnut tree. The sun climbed higher into the whitening sky making it impossible to concentrate. When a charming family – the women in white muslin dresses, the men in linen suits and boaters, and their children pushing hoops – stopped at the riverbank in front of us and laid out a white cloth for a picnic, Camille nudged me.

The heat had made me irritable. ‘Watch out, you nearly knocked the charcoal out of my hand.'

‘Never mind that. Do you see that person? There, under the willow tree, sketching the family? It's Rosa. The fiend! I've a good mind to report that
salope
to the police.'

I poked my head through the window but could make out only a slight man in plus-fours holding a sketchbook. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?'

Camille pushed her head out of the window too, so we were crammed together, shoulder-to-shoulder. ‘Look more closely, the artist. Do you see now?
C'est une artiste, pas artist … tu comprends?
'

‘Oh, I see now. Are you sure it's a woman? I suppose he is rather small.'

‘It's Rosa Bonheur all right. It's not fair. I don't know how she gets away with it.'

I sat back in the stifling cab and pulled at the high collar chafing my throat. The buttons were too small to undo without a hook. ‘Good for her! What harm is she doing? Better than being cooped up in this sardine tin.'

She narrowed her eyes at me. I regarded her coolly; I loved her passionately but Camille didn't intimidate me. I think it's why she loved me back.

She flopped back in the seat and fanned herself with her notebook. ‘Rosa may be a pain in the neck, but I admit,
elle a du coeur au ventre
.'

‘I'm not sure your mother would approve of your choice of words, but you're right, your friend does have guts.'

Camille opened the cab door and called out: ‘
Hein!
Monsieur l'artist!
I want you to meet a friend of mine.'

As the figure drew closer, I craned my neck for a closer look at Rosa Bonheur, who at that time was all the rage in England, with Queen Victoria a great admirer of her animal paintings. Hands in her pockets, Rosa strode over. She made a remarkably convincing
flâneur
. Up close, her face was lined and she appeared older than my own parents, perhaps in her sixties, but her eyes were bright, giving her the air of a much younger woman – or man.

‘
Eh bien, mes petites
,' she said, her voice a husky contralto. ‘What are two such lovely ladies doing out without a chaperone? Shall I protect you from the wolves of Paris?'

Camille opened the door. ‘But Rosa, how are you dressed? You look completely absurd, even for a man.'

Rosa rolled her eyes at me. ‘Camille has no taste.
Ma chère
Camille, if you had the least idea about fashion you would know this is
le Style Anglais.
Why, everyone, but everyone, is wearing it in London.'

‘Jessie is from London, let's ask her.'

They both looked at me. I hesitated.

Rosa took my hand and made a great show of kissing it. ‘Well, Jessie, I can tell that you, unlike this little country mouse, are a woman of the world,
au courant
with Savile Row and Jermyn Street, where I buy all my clothes, naturally. So tell me, do you not find me
tellement chic
? I'm sure you can see me strolling along the Strand in this elegant ensemble, which is, by the way, what I wore to play golf with the Queen's charming but incomprehensible man, John Brown. Later I took tea with Her Majesty and I could tell she had eyes only for me. And can you blame her?' Rosa spread her arms and struck a manly pose.

I laughed. ‘Well,' I said. ‘It's not exactly what you see on the streets of Mayfair, but perhaps on a shoot at a country house.'

Rosa grinned in triumph. ‘You see, Camille, I am the fine English gentleman killing the little birds.' She bowed to me. ‘Thank you, my dear Jessie. I like this costume even more now. I will wear it when I'm next at a
chasse
to paint the horses and hounds.'

A gendarme walked past in his
kepi
and short cloak. Camille ducked down and tried to pull Rosa inside the cab.

‘Get in, you fool, before you're arrested for dressing like a man,' she said.

But Rosa shook her off and called out: ‘
Monsieur l'officier! Ça va?
'

The policeman doffed his cap. ‘
Ça va bien
,
Mademoiselle Bonheur.
Allow me to congratulate you on your costume. You are quite the most alluring artist in Paris, even in trousers.'

Rosa, it turned out, was within the law. She had acquired a permit from the police to dress as a man so she could paint at horse fairs and cattle marts.

After she had waved him off, she insisted we get down from the cab. ‘I have finished my work for today and I starve like the poor little bohemians in their attics. Let's eat.' Rosa took us to a little kiosk, tipping her hat to women as they walked past and calling out flowery compliments so archaic they provoked giggles rather than outrage. ‘Mademoiselle, you are slim as a palm tree. I beg you to throw me one of your coconuts.' In between her sallies, she gave us a running commentary of salacious asides. ‘This one is a little peach, how I'd like to squeeze her.'

Camille batted Rosa on the arm. ‘Enough! Your compliments are nearly as ridiculous as that suit. You sound like my
grandpère
. Don't you have any modern compliments?'

‘You want modern? Try this. Eh, Mademoiselle!' she called out to a startled woman on a bicycle. ‘Those legs would be better wrapped around
my
saddle.' She turned to us, satisfied. ‘You can't get more modern than a bicycle, now, can you?'

At the café she ordered iced lemonade for us and I gulped mine down gratefully, not caring how unladylike I looked. People were already staring at us thanks to Rosa's outrageous appearance, but they soon turned their attention to a raucous group who arrived and sat a few tables away from us. The women were attractive in a dishevelled way that wasn't quite respectable, and one, her hair tumbling free over her low bodice, sat in an older man's lap, who had his back to us.

Rosa caught me watching them. ‘
Grisettes
– artists' tarts who like to call themselves seamstresses.' She pointed with her chin at the girl with the loose hair. ‘That one's a sight to gladden the eyes of any red-blooded male. Auguste is a lucky dog.'

The older man turned his head and I recognised Rodin, who was laughing as the model ran her fingers through his beard and kissed his upturned face. Camille turned to see what we were talking about.

She let out a small cry and stood up. ‘Let's go. Now.'

Rosa shrugged and put some coins on the table. But instead of leaving with us, Camille turned on her heel and marched over to the other table. Rodin rose, tipping the woman off his lap, and tried to say something. When he put his hand on Camille's arm, she pulled away from him and stormed out. Rodin stared after her.

‘What's going on?' I said to Rosa as we watched Camille climb into the cab and slam the door.

Rosa gave a low whistle. ‘Can't you guess? The little cat! Rodin has his work cut out for him there.'

I looked at Rosa's knowing face and it dawned on me what I had just seen. It was the first I knew of the love affair between Camille and Rodin.

Chapter 6

Asylum of Montdevergues

September 1929

‘Who could forget Rosa! That scoundrel!' Camille was laughing softly, her distress forgotten as we reminisced about our old friend. Then I ruined it all with an ill-judged remark.

‘Only Rosa could get away with behaving like that.' I meant her eccentric dress sense, but Camille's face darkened and the frightening metallic voice was back.

‘Of course, it was all right for Rosa to walk about in trousers, smoking on the streets and living openly with her woman lover,' she said. ‘Unnatural as she was, Rosa was welcome in all the smartest Paris salons. But me, what was my crime? I fell in love with Rodin and lived my own life apart from my family. And then when I dared to break free from him and make it on my own as an artist, they dragged me away by force from my studio and locked me up with the lunatics.'

I was alarmed when she began to pace up and down, muttering to herself: ‘
Toute seule! Toute seule! Abandonée!
'
When I tried to bring her back to the bench, she shook me off and screamed at the banked grey clouds, cursing Rodin.

‘Camille, please.' I pulled her into my arms and stroked her poor thin hair, murmuring to her as I used to when she couldn't sleep. She clung to me and began to cry again.

‘What is wrong with me? Why am I here? Oh, Jessie, help me, please help me.'

I began to cry too. ‘I will, I promise.'

Dr Charpenel shook his head and for a moment forgot to address me in his impeccable English. ‘
Je suis desolé, Madame.
What you ask, it's impossible without the family's permission.'

I leaned my hands on his desk. ‘But, what good is it doing keeping her here? She should be with people who love her. I would take care of her, Camille could live in my home, she would want for nothing.' She would sculpt again; we would work together as we once had. I would make her whole and bring her back. Camille, my Camille.

‘Madame Elbourne, please understand that your visit has already upset the patient. Her only other visitor over the past fifteen years has been her brother.'

I closed my eyes. When Paul finally replied to all the letters I'd written him during my search for Camille, he did not tell me she had been abandoned here alone all that time, cut off from everything and everyone she loved. It was monstrous; unforgivable.

‘While it is admirable that you care about your friend,' Charpenel said. ‘I must insist that you do not raise her hopes of being released. That is simply out of the question – the Claudel family has always been adamant that she remain in our care.' He closed her file as if the matter were settled.

I would not give up. ‘You yourself said that she would get better if she were cared for by people who loved her. I love her. Let me try at least. I can talk to her family, convince them that Camille is not mad.'

‘My predecessor made a clear clinical diagnosis. Mademoiselle Claudel is in the grip of delusions that she is being persecuted, based on mostly false interpretations,' he said.

I seized on his choice of word. ‘
Mostly
false? It sounds as if you believe there might be some truth to her so-called delusions. I would also feel persecuted if I'd been taken against my will and locked up in an asylum.'

He refused to meet my eye. ‘All I can say, Madame Elbourne, is that, historically, the asylum system has sometimes been abused by families who want to get rid of troublesome women.'

I waited.

Charpenel sighed and stared down at this desk with its neat piles of buff-coloured files. ‘When she was first admitted, she wrote letters every day complaining of her wrongful incarceration, to the newspapers, to influential friends, until her mother gave strict orders she could not send or receive correspondence from anyone outside the family. Madame Claudel died earlier this year, and the ban is no longer in force – it is why you were able to write to her.'

I thought of the letters I had written over the years to Camille at her family's address; they had all gone unanswered. Now I knew why. All those years I had thought she was ignoring me, too busy with her own life to bother with me, and all the time she was here, shut up alone. No wonder she was so broken.

I put my hands on Charpenel's desk so he was forced to look up at me. ‘Doctor, I implore you as a man of compassion, let me try to help Camille.'

‘Even if you were to obtain permission, the outside world would be an enormous shock to Mademoiselle Claudel. Everything has changed so dramatically since she came here in 1914 from the psychiatric hospital of Ville-Évrard. She was transferred with the rest of the patients when the Germans began advancing on France.'

The mention of that year made me flinch. My sons were among the first to join up. They were different when they came back, but at least they came back. Camille would know nothing about the Great War, other than whispers from beyond the asylum walls.

Charpenel rubbed his chin. ‘It would be too dangerous for her to travel to England, and I cannot in all conscience recommend this course of action.'

I began to protest but he held up his hand and continued. ‘However, I do believe she would be happier and calmer under supervised freedom and the right medication in her family home.' He began to scribble on a pad. ‘What I will do is recommend in the strongest possible terms that Mademoiselle Claudel be released into the care of her sister, Madame de Massary, who lives in the patient's childhood home in the country. Perhaps now that the mother is dead, the family will reconsider their position.' He put on his glasses and picked up one of the files.

‘Thank you, Doctor.'

Charpenel stood up and led me to the door. ‘Please do not expect miracles. Families in such cases are often reluctant to take on the responsibility of caring for an elderly relative.' He paused at the door and shook my hand. ‘I will also forward your offer to care for the patient, but I can do no more. After that, it is up to the family.'

I held onto his hand. It seemed so unfair that Camille's fate should be decided by the same people who'd condemned her to this living hell in the first place. But there was no point railing at this reasonable man.

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘If you don't mind, I'll wait while you write the letter and take it to Louise myself.'

Camille and I waited outside in the dying afternoon sunshine for my husband to pick me up. If he was as appalled as me when he saw Camille, he hid it well. He talked of the weather and his cheerful good manners seemed to have a calming effect on her. When he suggested a photograph, she sat meekly next to me while he fussed over the camera. I reached for Camille's hands, which she kept folded in her lap, like an obedient schoolgirl. She was quiet, defeated, and she seemed somehow absent, as if her soul were elsewhere. It upset me more than anything to see the awful emptiness in her eyes.

I kissed her three times, the Parisian way she'd once taught me. ‘I'll come back, Camille.'

She smiled blankly at me. ‘That would be nice. Thank you for coming such a long way, Madame.' Her pupils were huge. They must have given her something while I was with Charpenel. A nurse led her away, and Camille was once again just a small bent old woman. I wanted to run after her, bundle her into the car and take her far away from this place.

When the gates clanged behind us, I turned to my husband. ‘I have to go to Paris.'

He sighed and rubbed his temples. ‘I knew this was a bad idea. What about our trip to Italy?'

‘You go. I can't leave her here.'

‘Very well, Jessie, do what you have to do. You've always done exactly as you wish.'

Had I? I had always been so sure of the path my life would take, but that all changed when I became entangled in the affair between Camille and Rodin.