Paris Kiss (6 page)

Chapter 9

Villeneuve

September 1929

Louise had aged well. Her hair, an improbable blonde, was shingled in the latest style, her lips carefully painted crimson, and her skin powder-pale with rouged cheeks. She perched on a chaise longue, slim in a chic black jersey dress.

‘Chanel,' she said when I complimented her, touching the silk scarf at her throat. Hermès, no doubt. ‘Jessie! After all these years, it's incredible.' Her polite smile died when I told her why I was there. ‘You want Camille to come and live with you in England?' I gave her Charpenel's letter. She took it in manicured hands, nails as red as her mouth.

‘As you can see,' I said. ‘The doctor says she's well enough to leave the asylum, with the right care.'

Louise shook her lacquered head. ‘This is preposterous, out of the question.'

I had been expecting this. ‘If you won't let me take her home with me, she could come and live here. It's so peaceful.' Birdsong filtered through the open windows. I leaned towards her. ‘Please, Louise, you can't leave her in that place. Show some mercy. She's your sister.'

Louise screwed up the letter and dropped it on the rug. Her voice was hard. ‘Who are you to lecture me? What do you know about Camille?'

‘I know Camille like I know myself.'

‘Oh really? Where were you when she started to behave like a raving lunatic? And now you come marching in, telling me my duty. You have no idea what our family has had to put up with from Camille over the years, no idea. It's too much.'

She stood up and went to the bureau, returning with a bundle of letters. ‘Don't you think we've been through all this before? It's not the first time the doctors at Montdevergues have tried to go against my family's wishes. These are from 1920, from a Dr Brunet. He wanted Camille to be let out on a trial basis, said she was calmer.'

She read from the letter. ‘
Her thoughts of persecution, though not completely gone, are much less pronounced. She would very much like to be with her family and to live in the country. I believe that, in these conditions, we could try to let her out.
'

She put them back in the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘Maman saw right through that ruse, knew she'd been playacting for the gullible doctor. Camille is a sly one, they all are, it's part of their sickness.'

Louise had always been selfish and spoiled, but I thought she might have grown up. She clearly hadn't: she was as brittle and self-
obsessed as ever. It was hard to listen to her, the way she spoke about Camille, her flesh and blood. I forced back my anger and tried again.

‘Louise, if you could only see Camille, you would be able tell straight away that she is harmless. Won't you go and visit her at Montdevergues?' She turned her hard little face to the window. I had tried to rouse her compassion with a gentle appeal to her good nature, but she obviously didn't have one. I spoke more sharply. ‘Dr Charpenel said Paul has been her only visitor in all these years.'

Louise flinched then composed her features into an icy mask once more. ‘I can't possibly leave my family. It's such a long way, and I am not strong.' She pressed a lace handkerchief to her temples, as if to show me what a terrible strain she was under. It made me furious and I lost my patience.

‘I've never heard anything so ridiculous. I made the journey from England to the South of France and back up to Paris, and you see I am still in one piece, even though I'm older than you. You're just making excuses.' I stood up, my fists clenched by my side, and Louise shrank back in alarm. ‘And if you won't let Camille come with me, why don't you have her live here? There's nothing to stop you, there's plenty of room, and it is her family home too, after all.'

Louise looked horrified. ‘Are you mad, also, Jessie? Camille cannot come here; she's not fit to live with decent people. I have children, and they can't be exposed to Camille's vices.' She returned to the bureau and found another document. ‘We've had regular reports over the years. In this one it states that Camille had a period of calm, and then a relapse. The latest one says she's no better than she was when she was admitted.' She held out the piece of paper to me. ‘You can read it for yourself if you don't believe me.'

I ignored the documents. ‘Obviously she had a relapse, anyone would. Camille thought she was going to get out but when your mother refused to let her out then and made it clear she never wanted her back, all hope was taken from her. And now she's been abandoned in asylums for years, with no prospect of freedom. Can't you see it's a living hell for her?'

Louise threw the documents on the floor and screeched at me like a child who has run out of arguments and finds refuge in a temper tantrum. ‘And what about me?' She stamped her foot and somehow managed still to look elegant in her black and white Chanel courts. ‘It's all poor Camille this, poor Camille that. You have no idea what she was like, the things she did. What do you think my life would be like if she was free to roam around the village? How long before she ran back to Paris, to her foul drunken ways, sending obscene letters to the newspapers, accusing us of God knows what?'

I began to understand why Louise didn't want Camille back. Locked up, voiceless, her correspondence censored, the world would never know about the injustice she had suffered at the hands of her family. Released, there would be nothing to stop her stirring up a scandal. Dr Charpenel had also told me that when she'd first been put away, the papers had been full of furious letters from her supporters. The furore had died down, but it would be reignited if Camille were given her freedom. They had too much to lose. Paul was a prominent diplomat, a poet and playwright, Louise, a respectable married woman, comfortably installed in the Claudel family home.

Louise marched across the room and opened the sitting room door to indicate our meeting was at an end. I took my time gathering my things. When I stood before her she'd brought her emotions under check again and her painted lips stretched into a sympathetic smile. She didn't fool me.

‘I'm sorry if I spoke harshly, Jessie,' she said sweetly, placing a hand on my arm. ‘But this is a painful subject for me. My poor sister! Fortunately, Camille is not alone, not at all, you are mistaken in this. Paul visits her when he's home from America and one of his daughters goes to see her
Tante
Camille from time to time. I believe they have grown quite fond of each other.'

I shook her hand off. ‘Camille has been abandoned, and well you know it. She is desperately lonely and in despair. If you don't believe me, look at this.' I showed her the photograph my husband had taken of Camille in the asylum. I had asked him to develop it in Montfavet for just this purpose.

Louise stared at it for a long moment. At last, I saw tears in her eyes. ‘Poor Camille.' But the moment was over and her voice was hard again. ‘There is nothing to be done for her. I can't bring her here. I simply don't have the time to look after her. And even if I could, why would I? When she lived close to me in Paris, she never wanted anything to do with me. I didn't see her, not even once, while she was being hailed as a great artist, this “woman of genius”.' She seemed to collect herself. ‘Besides, Camille was always jealous of me when we were younger. She hated how close I was to Maman. All those old feelings of hers would return if she lived here, and it would be worse if she saw me again. Who knows what she would do?' She shuddered. ‘I wouldn't be safe in my bed at night.'

I resisted the temptation to slap her and forced myself to speak pleasantly; it would do Camille no good if I were to antagonise her family. ‘Please Louise, won't you visit her, just once? It would mean so much to her.'

She looked at the photograph again before handing it back to me. ‘Yes, I promise, next summer, I'll take my two children to see their aunt. Poor Camille.' She shut the door behind me so quickly it nearly caught my back.

A car was waiting for me. The driver sprang out and opened the door.

‘Take me to Paris,' I said.

I would find out what had happened to Camille. If I could prove that she had not been mad, that a terrible injustice had been committed, her family would be forced to take her out of that place. I would piece together the rest of her story. So far, I knew only part of it. I would find Georges; he would help me now, as he had done the first time we met.

Chapter 10

Paris

July 1884

Camille and I went early the next morning to the Colarossi Academy to get a message to Rodin and to hire a new model to replace Marie-Thérèse, who had inconveniently fallen in love with an artist and was refusing to sit for anyone else. The art college was the site of one of two model fairs, and if you got there early enough you could have your pick of the Italian and Jewish professional models who flocked to the city at that time.

A group of odd characters had gathered at the gates. An elderly man with an Old Testament beard, dressed in a robe and sandals, sat on his bundle paring an apple for a small boy with the rounded cheeks of a
putto
. His mother, a ripe peaches and cream blonde, reached out to slap the urchin's hand away from his nose. The lace trim on her eighteenth-century costume was grubby and the feathers on her large hat drooped. Nearby, two young women in peasant dress, one dark and one fair, both strikingly beautiful, stood chatting in Italian to a tall man, his shirt open to reveal a powerful chest. He had a handsome Slavic face with deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. Only his mane of dark curls betrayed his Italian origins.

Camille spoke to the old man. ‘I suppose there's no need to ask what kind of work you do – I recognise you from half a dozen Bible scenes.'

‘Mademoiselle, in my time I have been all twelve of the apostles, and I make a fine St Augustine. “Make me chaste but not yet”, eh?' He leered at Camille.

Her tone was cool. ‘This is your family?'

‘My little grandson, Emile, and my daughter, Ruth. Abraham and his son is one of our specialities, while Ruth can be Delilah or the Madonna. She's versatile. And I've sat for all the most prominent artists and have many tales with which to enliven your
atelier
and amuse your guests.'

I took Camille by the elbow and spoke to her quietly. ‘This is the last thing we need – a time waster who distracts us from our work. No doubt he has any number of tricks to cut down on his posing time.' I nodded at the athletic man with the peasant girls. ‘What about him?'

‘Undraped?' Camille asked.

‘Undraped. I'm sure we'd cope.'

We grinned at each other.

‘Why not?' Camille said. ‘We'll be working in Rodin's studio and surrounded by men soon enough.'

‘We should get to know the enemy, up close.' I said. ‘How often have you had the chance to work on a male nude?'

She frowned.

‘Exactly,' I said. ‘A gap in our education – it's high time we filled it.'

Camille turned back to the man. ‘Today, I'm looking for more of a David. Or a Goliath.' She nodded at the athletic man with the peasant girls.

Abraham stroked his beard. ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, you have an eye for a good physique. That's Giganti. All the sculptors love him. You should see him with his clothes off, muscles that Michelangelo would have killed for. I hear Rodin wants to sign him up.'

Camille moved towards the young Italian. ‘You are Giganti?'

The giant straightened up from where he'd been lounging against the wall. He towered over us, but his face was gentle when he smiled. ‘
Si, signorina
.'

Camille reached up and squeezed his bicep. ‘We pay five
sous
a day. Can you come tomorrow morning?'

While I waited for Camille to hire Giganti, I listened idly to the conversation between the fair and dark women. When I heard Rodin's name, I edged closer. I'd picked up enough Italian on trips to Florence to make out what they were saying.

‘He's an old goat,' the blonde said. ‘Do you know how he made me pose last time? Legs so wide I nearly got a chill in my…' She clutched at the skirt between her legs.

The brunette's laugh was throaty. ‘Do you know what he said to me? “Next time, bring your sister,
la blonde
, and we can all have some fun.” Dirty pig. He said he'd pay double to sculpt us both, you know, together.' She shrugged. ‘I don't mind. Rodin always pays well. It's just a pity about that scratchy beard.'

So our
maître
was one of those artists who took advantage of his models. He wasn't alone – I'd heard stories, but it still wasn't right. Women like these depended on artists for their livelihood and were too poor to say no. It was little better than prostitution. Can you imagine the outrage if I or Camille took liberties with Giganti? I couldn't help smiling – it wasn't an unpleasant thought.

The life class was in a studio with a glass ceiling that made the most of the weak morning light. We hauled a couple of easels from where they lay stacked in the corner and dragged them to the front. Taking precious sheets of paper from our leather portfolios, we pinned them to the boards. I smoothed my hand over the coarse grain and took out my charcoal sticks. Camille stood at her easel, one hand on her hip, looking towards the door. She craned to see over the heads of the students coming in until she spotted someone and waved.

‘
Eh, bien
, here is my friend, Georges,' she said.

He wore the uniform of the Latin Quarter art student: dark blonde hair swept back and worn long over his collar, tweed jacket over a loose shirt open at the neck. But there was a sleek elegance about him that belied his labourer's clothes and there was an aristocratic languor to his gait. He was the most exquisitely handsome man I'd ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes from him.

Georges sauntered over, his hands in his pockets. ‘
Salut
, Camille. What brings you here? I thought you'd outgrown us at the Colarossi now that you've got your own
atelier
with Rodin as your mentor.' He nodded at me. ‘Who's your friend?'

Camille introduced us. Georges kept his hands in his pockets but he looked at me intently, as if I were the only person in the room. I was transfixed. If someone had shouted
Fire!
at that moment I would have stayed rooted to the spot.

‘English?' he said.

‘Yes.' I was furious to find myself blushing. His lips twitched into a smile and I dug my nails into my palm. Idiot!

He moved closer. ‘Interesting.'

Camille looked amused. ‘Yes, she is interesting. Jessie is a rising star, a protégée of Legros, and now, like me, of Rodin. You'd better look to your laurels, Georges.'

Georges leaned his hand on my easel. ‘I work with Rodin, you know.' He addressed Camille but hadn't taken his eyes off me.

‘That's exactly what we want to talk to you about,' Camille said. She wasn't used to being ignored and sounded cross. ‘Rodin has invited me, I mean both of us, to work at his studio. We came here to ask if you would take a message to Rodin, that we accept his offer.' Camille poked Georges' hand with her charcoal. ‘So, there's no need to make such a close study of Jessie – you'll be seeing a lot more of her when we become your workmates.'

Startled, Georges broke eye contact with me and concentrated on Camille. ‘Rodin's studio, you say? Women working in the studio of the great man, now that is a new one.' He rubbed his face and grinned. ‘I don't know if the lads are quite ready to embrace the fairer sex, well not in that way, at least. I, on the other hand, am more than ready to give it a go.' Camille punched him on the arm and Georges laughed. ‘Don't worry, I'm only joking. Your virtue is safe with me, Camille. Your friend's on the other hand…' He looked at me and my stomach contracted. I was determined not to blush again and met his eyes.

‘I'm not worried about my virtue,' I said with all the coolness I could muster.

Georges raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you should be. Be warned, I love a challenge.' The room had begun to fill up and he moved away to set up his easel at the other side of the model's dais. ‘I'll come and find you after class,' he called over his shoulder.

I frowned and pretended to attend to my easel, but as soon as his back was turned I peeked around the side of it. He had stopped to talk to an aristocratic woman in sables, a wealthy Russian by the looks of her jewellery and the retinue that fussed around her, laying out materials. Georges whispered in her ear, and she laughed and laid a heavily ringed hand on his shoulder. No! The stab of jealousy was so strong it made me grip the sides of my easel. Georges glanced back and I ducked my head, hoping he hadn't caught me. I was acting like a fool; he was obviously a flirt and I had fallen for his charms like a silly servant girl. I began to fix paper to my board, determined to put him from my thoughts.

Just then, a timid model came in accompanied by another woman. She licked her lips and darted looks from under her hat around the crowded room.

Camille leaned towards me. ‘
Une ingénue
. Prepare for some sport.'

The new girl stopped at the dais and looked desperately at her friend, who gave her a little shove and said: ‘Go on, what are you waiting for? It's not so bad after the first time.'

A man called out: ‘Take off your clothes. Let's see what you're made of.'

‘She doesn't dare – her chemise is torn.' This time the taunting was from a woman. I was surprised and looked questioningly at Camille, but she seemed to be enjoying the show.

The students started chanting: ‘Off, off, off!'

The girl looked as if she was about to cry. She stood uncertainly and all at once began tearing off her clothes. A raucous cheer rose around her. She stood naked before us, using one arm to cover her small breasts and the other she put between her legs.

‘Look at her feet! The soles are as black as my husband's heart,' called another woman.

‘Have you been walking far this morning, sweetheart? Your feet are so veined and red.' A man, this time, with a thick German accent.

‘At least her breasts are firm. Give her a few years and she'll have a clutch of brats hanging off them. They'll look like empty slippers.' Another woman.

It was barbaric. Nobody deserved to be treated that way. ‘We must help her,' I said to Camille.

‘
Ah bouf
, Jessie. Stop being so soft-hearted. She needs toughening up otherwise she'll be no good as a model. She'll survive. You'll see, it'll be over soon.'

Camille was wrong: the poor girl's torment had just begun.

A man walked towards her, his hat pushed to the back of his head. He grinned at his friends, who called out their encouragement. ‘Mademoiselle,' he said. ‘We would like you to take up the pose of the Wounded Swan.'

‘I'm sorry, Monsieur, I don't know this pose. But I have learned others.' She lay down on the chaise longue, her ankles crossed and her hands doing their best to cover her shame.

The man tutted like a disappointed schoolteacher. ‘No, that won't do at all. Here, stand up. That's right. Now bend your arm, no this way. Stand on one leg. Turn it out, like so.'

‘Twist your neck towards the window,' one of his friends called.

‘Stick out your bony little bottom.'

‘Lower your knee. Not that one, you fool, the right knee.'

The commands came fsaster and faster and soon she looked like a contortionist.

‘She'll never sustain that pose, it's ridiculous,' I said.

‘That's the point.' Camille's charcoal flew across the paper.

After a few minutes, the girl's limbs started trembling and she stumbled. She rubbed her calf muscles and began to wail.

I could bear it no longer and walked over to the girl's chief tormentor, prepared to tell him what I thought of his behaviour. Before I could say anything, Georges pushed in front of me. As he passed me he laid his hand on mine and shook his head slightly. He jumped up onto the dais, took off his jacket and put it around the girl's shoulders.

‘Dry your eyes, Mademoiselle,' he said, giving her his handkerchief. ‘They are only having some fun. Come, stop crying. Didn't your friend tell you that all the new girls get the same treatment on their first day? Well done, you have passed the test, you're a fully fledged professional model. Now, isn't that something to tell your mother about tonight?'

His actions seemed to calm the students, who began to cheer the little model, crying: ‘Bravo! Bravo!' She smiled broadly and took a bow, her shame forgotten.

Georges said something to her and she arranged herself into a pose that was both challenging for us to draw and easy for her to hold. He stepped off the dais, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, and tipped his hat at me with a grin.

Camille spoke softly in my ear. ‘Duchamp is a handsome devil. You could do worse.'

‘I barely know him and, besides, I'm promised to William.'

She smiled. ‘Ah yes, William, your childhood friend. If you say so, Jessie, but I think our gallant D'Artagnan,' she nodded towards Georges, ‘is smitten with you. That's good – we'll need an ally in Rodin's studio.'

I picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch in the outlines of the figure, but couldn't stop thinking about Georges and how he had helped that downtrodden creature. It takes a lot to go against the crowd – I should know. He obviously didn't give a ha'penny about what other people thought of him. I'd been too hasty to dismiss him as a shallow flirt; there was more to Georges Duchamp than those casually rumpled – devastating – good looks.

At the end of class I was picking up some dropped charcoals when I felt rather than saw Georges crouch down beside me. His hand brushed against mine.

‘I'm on my way to Rodin's studio. You can deliver your message in person. I'll take you there, if you want,' he said, using the familiar ‘
tu
'.

I met his eyes and the look in them stopped my breath. Georges held out his hand and, like a sleepwalker, I slipped my hand into his warm palm and followed him.