Rodin's Lover (5 page)

Rose rushed from the kitchen to greet him. “Really, Auguste, can’t you hang your coat?” She plucked it from the chair and hung it on a rack. “It’s wet. I do get tired of cleaning up after you.”

Auguste glanced at her shriveled lips and mousy brown hair, her dirty apron. He tried to remember how he had come to love this little dressmaker. But still, he could not leave her. She cared for his maquettes when he was busy with others, kept his home in working order, tended to their bills. And she was the mother of his seventeen-year-old son. The thought of young Auguste left a bitter taste in Rodin’s mouth. The drunken lout had no skills, no interest in holding a job or attending school. He slunk out of sight for stretches of time, reappearing only when he needed money.

“Can you put on a pot of tea?” he asked. “I’m going to be up late tonight.”

“You won’t have dinner?” Her face fell. “Who is your muse this time?”

“Would you prefer we pay back the advance?” Auguste asked, tone sharp. He avoided the topic he knew Rose wished to discuss. He would not be baited to talk about the women he had bedded. She had not warmed his bed in years as per her choice, so in his eyes she had lost the right to care.

“We can live on the street. Would that suit you?” He clutched his sketchbook to his chest and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll prepare my own tea and retire in my room. Suddenly I am not hungry.”

“Don’t you love me?” Tears filled her eyes.

He spun around. “Love? How can you ask me that? Do I not put a roof over your head? Haven’t we toiled together in our poverty? I dine with you in the evenings and we share Sunday afternoons.”

Must she harass him every moment? Rose’s constant need for reassurance wore on him almost as much as her constant admonitions. He never seemed to be enough for her. Yet once, they had shared a passion of sorts. He wondered how it had withered so easily.

“Yes.” Rose dipped her head. She understood the limits of his love, though it was not the love she wished for. But he knew she would not leave him. She had nowhere to go. He was everything to her, and yet, she could not keep from grasping at his coattails as if he might slip away.

Auguste met her watery gaze. “I am finished discussing my emotions for one evening.” He mounted the stairs leading to his bedroom. The only emotions she evoked in him now vacillated between irritation and gratitude. Love? He didn’t know the meaning of the word, nor did he care to. Love was for fools and for mothers and children. And he had work to do.

He closed his door and turned the key in the lock.

C
amille removed her cape and hung it over a chair. Mother could have warned her about the suitor’s visit ahead of time, though if she had, Camille might have done her best to avoid him.

“Join us, please,” Mother called from the salon. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

She glanced down at her soiled dress, shrugged, and tromped into the salon.

“Goodness, dear, you’re quite disheveled.” Mother strained to keep her tone light.

“It was a usual day of mixing glue and playing with mud. A true lady’s pursuit.” Camille smiled sweetly.

The stranger in their salon chuckled.

Camille raised an eyebrow. The gentleman had a sense of humor—one victory for him. She stared, unabashedly, at the man in a black sac suit and cravat. His wavy hair gleamed in the waning daylight, and his perfectly trimmed beard and stout posture exuded arrogance. He thought he was someone special.

The gentleman set down the teacup he cradled in his hands and stood. “Mademoiselle Claudel, I presume.” He crossed the room toward her to make a proper greeting.

“The same.” She stiffened as he neared.

“I present to you Monsieur Alphonse Bertillion.” Mother bared her teeth in a self-satisfied smile. “Sergeant at the Paris Prefecture of Police.”

Sergeant Bertillion leaned toward her and the scent of ink and bergamot wafted from his person. He doled out a peck on her cheek as if it pained him to part with it.

“Has someone been arrested?” Camille’s mouth fell open in mock surprise. “Paul, perhaps? No! It’s Louise, isn’t it? She has been stealing again. That devilish sister of mine.”

“Camille!” Mother fumed.

“Or perhaps you are here on account of my pilfering from the local church?” She batted her eyelashes at Sergeant Bertillion.

He chuckled again.

Camille could not stop the smile that sneaked to her lips. As a policeman he did not scare easily. An unfortunate circumstance, for she had no interest in him, or any other gentleman caller, and she would do what was necessary to unnerve him.

His rigid posture thawed ever so slightly. “A woman with a sense of humor is a rare thing, mademoiselle. Would you care to sit down?” he asked.

“Why not?” She perched on the edge of a chaise, ignoring the weight of Mother’s glare.

He sat opposite her and chose a sugar-glazed biscuit from the serving platter. “Your mother tells me you attend art school. You’ve heard there is a new Ministry of Art?”

“Headed by Antonin Proust. Yes, I read it months ago.”

He glanced at her sodden skirts. “Do you paint, mademoiselle? It is quite an acceptable pursuit for young women.”

“I am a sculptor,” she said, her tone disinterested.

“What precisely does a sculptor study?” he asked. “I am intrigued.”

She picked at the crud dried beneath her fingernails. “I study anatomy. Each day I look upon naked men and women and compose their likeness.”

He choked on his mouthful of biscuit until his face flamed red. Horror registered on Mother’s face. The tick of the mantel clock reverberated in the room like a gong.

Camille selected a biscuit of her own and nibbled at its edges. While Monsieur Bertillion drained his teacup, she glanced at his hands. They appeared soft and thin, without calluses or the mark of one who labored, though his right hand was ink stained. She looked at
her own, scarred from a slip of a rasp and caked in filth. She smiled. As any sculptor’s hands should be.

Mother glared at Camille.
Say something,
her eyes said.

“I am also a student of emotion.” Camille broke the silence. “I am fascinated by how it shapes our choices, and do my best to reflect those sentiments in my works.”

Sergeant Bertillion replied, “I see we aren’t so different, Mademoiselle Claudel. I, too, study men’s motives and how their unchecked emotion leads them to crime.”

“Oh? It is my understanding policemen merely detain their victims and haul them to prison.”

“That is true, but I spend more time in prison observing criminals, writing extensive notes of their behaviors, and doing clerical work. I examine the shape of their skulls and eye sockets, the structure of their bodies. I am in search of patterns, you see. If one could determine a pattern in criminal behaviors, in their anatomical structures, perhaps we might prevent crime. Or, at the very least, discern whether or not they are truly guilty.”

That was why he had smelled of ink, Camille thought. All of his feverish note taking, no doubt.

“As far as I can see, there is no science to one’s emotions, monsieur. They sweep over you and consume you, often with an intensity one does not expect. Nothing more than a familiar scent or texture to spark a memory, and voilà! A flood of disgust chokes you, or the sweetest memory fills your heart.”

Mother said nothing, but listened to their banter.

“Still, I believe there is a science to it all. I have not found the missing link yet, but I shall,” he said.

“I am certain if anyone can discover that link, it is you, monsieur. You seem the inquisitive sort.”

“Thank you.” Pride pushed his shoulders back a fraction. “I like to think so.”

“I imagine you spend many hours poring over your documentation,” Camille said. “What a life you lead, spending hours in prison and chasing criminals! Your work is admirable.”

“Why thank you, mademoiselle.” He sat a bit taller.

“You are so passionate! You must be consumed by the nobility of your career,” she said with false admiration.

“I hope to serve justice in whatever way I can. I would like to change history.”

She smiled. “And changing history is not such a lofty goal for someone of your . . . intelligence. But I suppose your dedication requires endless focus—near obsession, even.”

“Very often, yes.” He nodded. “I do not sleep well at night for my churning mind.”

“One might say you have no time for a wife and certainly not a family at all.”

A grim smile crossed his face. At last he understood her game of words.

“More tea?” Mother interjected, oblivious to Camille’s victory.

“I would love some, Mother.” Camille smiled in spite of herself. Any man as proud as Sergeant Bertillion would not let himself be outwitted by a woman. He would not return.

Camille had argued and pleaded, somehow persuading her parents to rent an atelier. The thought of all that “mud and grime” coating the furniture and floors disturbed Mother greatly, and once Camille had proposed shared expenses with other women, she had tipped the argument in her favor. She swept up the final pile of dust and debris on the studio floor. She would not have bothered, but Monsieur Boucher would be by for a lesson at any moment.

Emily prepared her workstation while Amy reshaped an ear on her bust of an angel for the third time. The ear sagged and flopped to the floor with a thud.

Camille smothered a laugh. Amy was trying to force what was not natural. She didn’t feel the contours of the clay, or mold with light fingers when necessary. Camille had already shown her the technique twice and she could not seem to catch on.

“Clay has a memory,” she had told Amy. The ear had once been a nose and did not wish to be an ear.

“That’s absurd,” Amy had retorted. “You can shape the clay to be whatever you like. And I don’t want to waste it.”

But now the misshapen lump lay on the floor. One could not force something to be, simply because one wanted it to be so. And pushing made no difference at all.

Emily ignored them and continued to sketch at her worktable.

“Why don’t you help me instead of laughing?” Amy wiped her hands on a towel and stretched out in a chair.

“Perhaps your angel doesn’t want to listen,” Camille said. When she noticed Amy’s exasperated expression, she stopped. “Come now, that’s funny.” She leaned her broom against the wall.

“It is all so easy for you, isn’t it?” Amy retrieved the flaccid disk of clay from the floor. “I grow tired of your smug tone.”

Camille’s smile faded. She had never been smug with Amy—only helpful. But the girl she had liked immediately at l’Académie Colarossi had proven to be envious and insecure in her abilities. Now Camille understood why. Amy lacked true talent—though sad to admit, it appeared to be true. Her comrade worked hard, but it did not make up for her lack of inspiration. Emily possessed more raw aptitude, but did not work as hard as Amy did. In all, neither would advance if they continued on these paths. Being a female artist was far too difficult.

“Having confidence in my abilities does not make me smug.” Camille drew a tin of tobacco out of her handbag and sat at the table. “Besides, I have helped you many times, have I not?”

Amy did not reply.

“Don’t lose heart,” Camille said, her tone softening. “Why don’t we take a break? Have a cigarette, and I will show you a trick to fix the ear.” She licked the edges of a small square of rolling paper and placed a clump of sticky brown tobacco in its center.

Amy’s furrowed brow relaxed. “Thank you. I could use your help.”

“Glad to,” Camille said while keeping her eye trained on her task. She lit the rolled tobacco with a match; the cigarette paper caught and the end glowed with a tiny orange ring of fire. By the third puff on her cigarette, her tongue tingled and her head began to vibrate.

A knock sounded at the door. Camille stood and moved to the door to welcome their tutor inside. “Monsieur Boucher, please, come in,” she said, inhaling once more.

Boucher’s eyes widened as he took in her cigarette. Such an impolite habit for a young woman.

“Good day, monsieur,” Amy and Emily said in unison.

Amy straightened her smock. “I would offer you tea, but we need to refill our bin. I apologize for our lack of hospitality.” She blinked rapidly, fluttering her lashes at the sculptor.

Oblivious to Amy’s flirtations, he said, “No need, but thank you.” Monsieur Boucher glanced around their work space, noting the Oriental rug covering one wall, the stove, and even a makeshift vase with dried flowers. “A charming nest. Quite the perfect place for women to work.”

“I should bring my sewing and some lace curtains,” Camille said, smashing her cigarette in a dish. “Perhaps some china with a pretty flower pattern?”

Monsieur Boucher held up a gloved hand. “Mademoiselle Claudel, you know I—”

“No need, monsieur, for I am only teasing you.” She grinned. She couldn’t help but be sarcastic. He meant well, but he did not know how offensive his comments could be. She truly detested being assigned a “woman’s” duties and interests. She found them dull and demeaning.

He smiled. “
Très bien
. This morning, we will begin by choosing a model. They’re gathering soon.” He fished inside his coat for a pocket watch. “We don’t have much time. The schools will select their models first and we may do so after.”

“This is so exciting,” Emily said. A dimple made a groove in her round face.

Camille leapt to her feet and squeezed Emily first, then Amy, with all her might. “We shall have our own model!” she exclaimed. The ladies laughed at her exuberance.

After a short and bumpy ride to Place Pigalle, they alighted from the coach to join a crowd gathered in the square. Carriages and bicycles skirted around the mass of people milling by the fountain.

Camille gaped at the throng. She hadn’t realized there were so many models, or working sculptors, for that matter.

A sculptor in a beret with an auburn beard appeared to be important; many models crowded around him. She watched in fascination as the gentleman scrutinized each face and figure, dismissing those he did not want. At last he settled on three models. Three! She couldn’t
fathom having the ability to pay for more than one at a time. She eyed the gentleman once more with interest.

“The best models apply directly to the renowned sculptors.” Boucher leaned close to Camille’s ear to be heard above the din of the city. “Then the schools choose, and we pick last. You won’t have the luxury of knowing which models are the most reputable or which make the best study, but you must start somewhere.”

“I trust your opinion, monsieur.”

“Oh, you shall choose, mademoiselle.” His smile reached his eyes.