Rodin's Lover (3 page)

C
amille and family rode the ninety kilometers to Paris in silence until the number of houses and buildings increased, and she knew they had reached the city.

“Here we are!” Papa said.

They entered the northern edge of the city and traveled south through Montmartre. The carriage made a sudden turn down a narrow side street dotted with makeshift workshops. Half a dozen carts filled with
tableaux
lined both sides of the cobblestone street. Views of the Seine and its bridges, assortments of flowers, and seascapes were all for sale to passersby. Artists perched on stools, their easels propped open, prepared to sketch a willing customer.

Warmth surged through Camille’s limbs. Others would understand her passion. A fierce happiness seized her and she laughed aloud.

“Look.” Paul nudged her with his elbow.

A man in a faded bowler hat made swift strokes on paper with a chunk of charcoal. The bald head and beady eyes of Jules Grévy, elected president of the Third Republic, emerged. The caricature displayed an overly large head and a narrow body. The latest bloody revolution had converted France from an imperial state to a republic once more. Papa debated Grévy’s election with the neighbors incessantly. “A moderate man who enforces change at a pace the people might digest, rather than those damned radicals,” he argued.

The sudden screech of police whistles split the air.

Traffic stopped. Their caravan of belongings halted. Artists slammed their cases closed and sprinted into alleyways or ducked into open taverns. People scattered in every direction. Two hackneys stacked with artwork pulled into traffic, dodging coaches, pedestrians, and street vendors, and sped away to their next destination. An officer on horseback thundered after them.

“What’s happening?” Camille asked, eyes wide.

A mustached policeman in black uniform stalked from vendor to vendor, flashing the pistol at his hip.

“You need a permit to sell art on the street, or to rent a gallery space,” Papa explained. “Otherwise, you will be fined, or arrested if you have been warned before. Boucher explained this when he escorted me through Paris last month.”

A third policeman blew his whistle and urged the traffic forward. Their caravan began to move once more.

As they continued through the city, Camille studied the sprawl of houses and apartment buildings. Sculpted fountains, monuments of statesmen, and Grecian figures decorated the city’s gardens. Windows framed with ornate structures and carved cornices adorned the public building fronts and the more expensive homes. She longed to stroke the bumpy stone vermiculation on their facades, or the smooth marble animals guarding their entries.

They turned down Rue du Parc Royal and Camille pressed her face to the glass.

“The Hôtel de Ville,” Papa said.

She gawked at the dozens of statues and intricate friezes that seemed to spring to life from the stone. Her fingertips tingled in anticipation. There must be so many working sculptors in Paris, her new home. She smiled.

Their coach wound through narrowed streets and across grand boulevards.

“Look at all the boutiques.” Louise squealed and kissed Mother on the cheek. “Imagine the gowns.”

Mother patted her favorite daughter’s knee. “You would be lovely in yellow silk. Too bad we won’t have much to spend on frivolities.”

Camille looked past the shops at the astounding number of gentlemen, boys, and even the odd woman on
bicyclettes
. She had seen a few before in town—the newsboy had one, the occasional neighbor—but never had she seen so many at once. Gentlemen wheeled around pedestrians and splashed through puddles, muddying the bottoms of their trousers. Some managed to ride without so much as tipping their hats. Camille cringed as one young man in a checked sac suit narrowly missed a flying hansom cab. He did not flinch and looked ahead as if nothing had happened.

The odor of garbage rotting in the summer heat permeated the air. Mother pinched her nose. “This city is foul. How will we stand it?”

Papa’s smile tightened, but he did not let her spoil his good humor. The rest of the family was thrilled to be in the city.

“
Regardez
.” Paul perked up. “La Bibliothèque Nationale. Can we visit it, Papa?” Paul studied the towering library, now under construction for expansion.

“Of course, my boy.” Papa squeezed his shoulder.

At last they neared Montparnasse, in the fourteenth arrondissement, their new home.

“This district is considered part of the Left Bank,” Papa said, “the home of many art schools and studios, though not Bohemian like Montmartre.” He pointed to a pack of students streaming from a narrow doorway between two brasseries.

Every student was male.

Camille eyed a man not much older than she. He carried a blanket-draped canvas and a satchel stuffed with paintbrushes; flaxen bristles poked from the top of his bag. A blob of violet paint smeared his cheek. “I’ll need a work space,” she mused aloud.

Mother snorted. “And how do you propose to pay for it?”

“All that occupies your mind is money, Mother,” Camille said, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Perhaps you should get a hobby, or a goal of sorts.”

Mother huffed, “You ungrateful—”

“Enough!” Papa said. “We are almost there.”

The traffic moved and they continued on their way. When they reached their apartment, Camille sprang from the coach. She could hardly wait to explore.

Within two weeks, Camille had settled into their apartment on the fifth floor at 135 bis Boulevard du Montparnasse, and Papa headed to his newest post in Wassy. When the first day of school arrived, she nearly skipped through the carved front doors of l’Académie Colarossi. Young women and men filed inside and scattered to their respective classrooms—drawing, painting perspectives, classical studies, sculpture. Camille inhaled a whiff of heaven: pine turpentine and paint, the chalky odor of plaster powder, and the acidic tang of shellac. Her nose sought out her favorite smell of all, the earthy scent of clay.

She wound through the rooms and at last found the proper studio. Large windows spanned the entire length of one wall, leaving the room awash in sunlight. On the opposite wall, a system of shelves displayed finished busts of all shapes and sizes, animal caricatures, and a smattering of tools and supplies. She chose the only free stool. A petite blonde sat next to her, and beyond her, a plump yet pleasant-faced brunette. Camille glanced at the cloths covering two large lumps in front of the girls. Their current works, no doubt.

“
Bonjour,
” the first girl said with a thick English accent. “
Je suis
Amy. And this is my friend, Emily. You’re new here.”

Camille smiled. “Yes,” she replied in English. Papa had harped on her learning it, though she had never mastered the difficult language.

“Good morning, students.” Their professor, a nondescript middle-aged gentleman, removed his hat and slipped into a gray smock. The remaining students shuffled to their places.

Camille studied her classmates while the professor began the lesson. Her heart beat faster with excitement. She would work side by side with men! She’d have the same education as they.

Students removed sheets from their models, revealing half-finished torsos and heads.

“Before we begin, please welcome Mademoiselle Claudel. She will be joining our class this semester.”

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare. Camille fixed her gaze on a spot on the wall and avoided eye contact. She wished the professor would get on with the lesson.

“You may prepare the plaster for your table today, mademoiselle,” the professor said.

A dark young man dressed in a white
chemisier
and a colorful foulard strolled into the room. His angular jaw, aquiline nose, and high cheekbones were striking, though he could not be called handsome.

Our model, Camille thought. A
real
, hired model.

“
Parfait
. Giuseppe is here. Let’s get to work. The plaster, mademoiselle.” Professor Jacques motioned toward several covered buckets at the rear of the classroom.

Camille chose a bucket of plaster, dragged the heavy container to her work space, and began to stir. She turned her body to get a better grip on the stirring rod and found herself facing Giuseppe.

The model smiled as he loosened and removed his scarf and laid it on a nearby stool. Camille’s heart thumped a bit faster. Next, he removed his shoes, and then unbuttoned his shirt, showing patches of richly colored flesh and black chest hair.

When he reached for his trouser buttons, a flush burned Camille’s cheeks. She averted her gaze. Why didn’t he undress behind the partition? She dipped the thick rod into the viscous mixture with too much force. Plaster splattered her arms. She looked up to see who had witnessed her first blunder.

Giuseppe winked. Camille bowed her head, swirling the stick in her bucket one last time.

Amy leaned toward her. “You will grow used to seeing him naked. His . . . well,
it
is not as frightening as it seems.” She chuckled as she cleaned her wire end tool.

“I’m not frightened of . . .
it
,” Camille said, straightening.

Amy and Emily giggled softly.

Camille flipped open her sketchbook. She would need several preliminary sketches before she would be ready for plaster. She stole a glance at the model again—just in time for him to strip away his undergarments. An inaudible gasp escaped her lips.

His “it” dangled between his legs, encircled by a forest of dark hair. She could not tear her eyes away. So different, a man’s physique, when seen in reality rather than stone. She wondered at his member’s texture. Was it truly as soft and squishy as it seemed?

Her cheeks grew hot once more. It was perfectly normal to wonder
about his . . . texture, she told herself. She was a sculptor, for God’s sake. If she were to reproduce him well, she must know the sense and movement of every part of the human anatomy.

Giuseppe sauntered to the front of the room and mounted his stand. He settled into the stance he had held, no doubt, for many days. He stood as if poised for battle, one arm suspended with a faux shield, the other raised to grip his sword. His features assumed a noble expression, though he stared at the wall and not a battlefield.

Camille plopped down on her stool and wiped her hands on a towel. She sketched the model’s body, careful to accentuate the patches of shadowed skin, the highlighted angles of his face, his muscular stomach and well-formed chest. At last she drew his thighs, feet, and his . . . flaccid member.

She wondered how he felt on the platform. Could she stand naked for all to scrutinize? She shuddered at the thought of prying eyes measuring and assessing her every curve.

The class continued their work in silence for hours. The professor floated around the room, making suggestions and demonstrating techniques. When he stopped at Camille’s table, he did not say a word, but stood and watched her.

Monsieur Jacques handled the miniature portrait she had made of Giuseppe, turning it this way and that. “There should be more harmony here between the chin and jaw. And again here.” He pointed to the shoulder blades. “These grooves are too deep and create too much shadow. The lines should flow from one to the other.”

“
Merci
, monsieur,” Camille said.

He fished in his pocket and produced a watch. “Now we break for luncheon. Everyone, meet back here at three this afternoon. Please do not be late. You will have only a couple of hours of proper daylight left to work.”

Camille’s face fell. She had just started to make progress. While she packed her things, the other students milled about before leaving for home.

Giuseppe jumped down from his perch and moved to the back of the room. As he passed her table, he smiled.

“You have all the luck,” Amy said, winking. “One day in class and already you have the model wishing you were his girl.”

Camille laughed. “I doubt that.” She wrapped her clay models in a towel.

Amy touched her hand. “Emily and I like to dine at a café across the street. You are welcome to join us.”