Rodin's Lover (9 page)

“Thank you.” He kissed her cheek and rubbed her shoulder for an instant, then disappeared up the stairs.

Auguste closed his office door behind him and turned the knob of his gas lamp. The dark room came alive with clay studies, their shadows dancing across the ceiling in the light. He opened his sketchbook. He’d had an idea for his
Gates of Hell
this afternoon: a man climbing on top of a woman, desperate to exit the hell of his tortured desire. The woman accepted him greedily.

Auguste’s charcoal swept over the paper as if it moved on its own. His vision blurred and a soft mound, then two emerged, a hollowed navel and curving hips. An oval head and sweep of dark hair, piercing eyes—the kind that could discern one’s soul—jumped from the page. Vivacity undulated from the flesh, beauty and its seduction. He dropped his utensil and stared at his drawing in amusement and surprise. His heart sped up its pace.

Mademoiselle Claudel peered back at him in all her naked splendor.

C
amille tiptoed past the maid pulling a ham from the oven. Her stomach rumbled at its rich scent, but she would eat later. For now, she had somewhere to be.

Mother caught sight of her from the salon and followed her to the door. “Where are you going at this hour? We will dine soon.”

“I am meeting a friend for tea,” she lied.

Martin Larousse, a fellow student, had told her of a spot to find clay on the outskirts of an estate’s property, though he did not have the nerve to take any for himself. Giganti had agreed to help her dig it up and carry it back to the atelier. If Mother knew, she would lock her in or, worse, send for the police. It could not be legal to dig up someone’s property, but Camille didn’t care one whit about legalities.

“Absolutely not,” Mother said, eyeing the clock on the mantel. “It’s half past eight. Only prostitutes or society women with proper escorts are out at such an hour.”

Camille fastened the last of the buttons on her overcoat, jammed a hat on her head, and snatched two buckets and a pickax she’d stashed near the door. “I’ll be home in a few hours.”

“I don’t know why I bother at all!”

Camille slammed the door behind her. She did not understand why Mother still took the pains to yell at her. She would always do as she pleased.

She raced up the street and hailed a coach. Once inside, she
glanced at the moon, bright and nearly full. She wondered what Monsieur Rodin was doing tonight. Working, or perhaps enjoying an aperitif by the fire? Was he alone? She shifted in her seat, at once surprised and alarmed by the course her thoughts had taken. It did not matter what the artist was doing. Surely, Rodin was not thinking of her.

The coach stopped at the edge of a park abutted by several large houses.

“Please return in two hours,” Camille said to the coachman.

“By then I’m in Montmartre to pick up the gents and prostitutes.” The coachman leered. Even in the dark, she could see he had no front teeth and stubble covered his chin.

“I’ll pay you double the fare,” she said firmly.

“We’ll see ’bout that, ma’meselle.” He cracked his whip and his horse lurched forward.

She hoped he would return. Toting buckets of clay for a kilometer before she met another cab would be a brutal undertaking.

A dark figure in a bolero hat stepped from the cover of trees at the rear of the closest house. The rhythmic thumping of her heart increased. “Giganti?” she whispered. “Is that you?” The figure slid along the side of the enormous house and onto the spit of cobbled street.

“
Si, signorina.
” A smile split Giganti’s face and his teeth gleamed in the moonlight. “A perfect night to steal clay, no?” He waved his hand at the swath of black sky dotted with sequin stars. He chuckled, positioning his shovel on his left shoulder.

Camille swatted his cheek in a playful gesture. “Let’s go before someone sees us.”

They stole through the yard, damp grass clinging to their boots, their breath streaming around them in a cloud. The crisp air chapped Camille’s cheeks and stung her lips. She hoped the ground would not still be frozen. It had warmed the past few weeks with the coming of an early spring.

When they reached the edge of the wood, she ducked under a bough. “Martin said we should walk no more than five minutes and we will see the pond.”

“For why does he know such things?” Giganti asked, his Italian accent thick as ever. “Does he make a habit of sneaking through people’s gardens?”

Camille giggled. “He knows the people who live here.”

After several minutes traipsing through dense forest, the trees thinned and a pocket of water glistened silver in the moonlight. Its clean scent permeated the chilly air.

“We’ll take turns digging.” Camille kicked a stone aside with the tip of her laced boot. “Yesterday’s rain softened the ground. It should be easy enough.”

Giganti plunged the shovel into the soil, using his full weight against the head of the tool. He grunted as it hit rock. “It’s solid rock.”

“The clay is below it.” She pulled on her kid gloves and grasped the pickax in her hands.

“You say that as if it is easy to find.”

She swung the ax at the ground with force. A cracking and thud met the point of her tool. She launched it again and again, until her hands grew clammy with sweat and slipped inside her gloves.

Giganti watched her with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment.

The exertion warmed Camille’s blood and she no longer felt the raw air. Sweat dripped from her nose. She paused to catch a breath. “Now give it a try.”

He forced his shovel into the earth. It gave way easily.

“Ah, see there?” She dropped the ax and took the other shovel.

They dug in silence. The lonely hoot of an owl drifted through the forest branches in an eerie echo. The pond’s glassy surface reflected the light of the moon, casting the oblong well of water in an ethereal glow. If Camille were more superstitious, she would swear they were being watched by woodland elves.

When at last they hit clay, they heaved load after load into the empty buckets.

Giganti lifted a bucket to test its weight. “They’re heavy. We should stop now or we’ll never be able to lug them through the forest.”

Camille dropped her tool and flexed her sore fingers. “What time is it? I told the coachman to return in two hours.”

He flipped open the luminous brass lid of his pocket watch. “It’s nearly eleven. We need to leave now or we’ll never make it.”

They looked across the clearing to the woods. It would be a long, difficult haul. Camille’s jaw set in determination. “No time to waste.”

They dragged their loads, pausing every few meters to rest. Her shoulders ached, but she ignored the burn. She trudged through the woods in almost total darkness; only a smattering of silver light sprinkled down through the thicket of trees. After a few meters more, she slammed the edge of her bucket on a bared tree root and stumbled.

“Are you all right?” Giganti huffed behind her.

A series of lit windows winked in the distance. “We’re nearly there,” Camille said, fastening her gaze on the edge of the field, where the line of grass met the street. Only a little farther now.

When twenty meters remained, the rumble of wheels on cobblestone echoed in the stillness. Camille attempted to run, dragging her bucket with one hand and her tool with the other. “Hurry!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Giganti caught up to her, his breath coming faster now.

The carriage pulled to a stop and the coachman stood on his perch, horsewhip in hand. “Make it quick. I don’t have all night,” he growled. He adjusted his manhood in his trousers.

“Everything settled now?” Camille asked.

“Not quite.” He grabbed himself once more.

A burst of laughter erupted from Giganti beside her.

“You are too much man for me to handle,” Camille said.

Giganti roared until a tear slid down his cheek.

“Shut it and get your hind end on board!” The coachman reseated himself.

Camille climbed into the hackney, ignoring the one other passenger, and took the supplies as Giganti handed them to her.

The steady gallop of horse’s hooves beat against the cobbles, shattering the night’s stillness. Camille peered out the coach door and down the street, half-afraid to see who approached.

“You there! Stop!” A policeman emerged from the darkness, the shiny buttons of his black uniform and the telltale shape of his hat giving him away.

“Police!” Giganti heaved the last of the tools inside and leapt into the carriage.

Camille shoved the lady passenger over—if one could call her a lady. She had come straight from Montmartre, no doubt. Her body had been wrangled into a gown several sizes too small and her rouge
appeared layers thick. She didn’t even wear gloves, not that Camille cared. She looked down at her own muddy hem, her filthy gloves and dirty boots.

“
Excuse-moi!
” Anger contorted the painted woman’s face. “You didn’t need to push me.”

The policeman thundered closer.

“Cover the buckets,” Giganti hissed.

“And how am I to do that?” Camille asked as a swell of panic washed over her.

“Your coat. And your pelisse, mademoiselle.” Giganti gestured to the woman.

“Why should I help the likes of you?” She pushed her already heaving bosom out a bit farther.

“Because you don’t want me to report you as a thieving prostitute. Our night together was not up to my satisfaction and I would like the money you stole from me. I’m sure the policeman will side with me.”

The woman glared at him and removed her pelisse with haste. She folded it over her arm, draping its train over the bucket under her legs.

Camille fumbled with the buttons of her overcoat.

The policeman sidled up next to the coach, dismounted his horse, and opened the door to peer inside. Camille said a silent prayer of thanks for the darkened street.

“What brings you to this end of Paris on this fine evening?” the policeman asked.

Suddenly the situation seemed hilarious. Camille began to laugh.

“Do you mind telling me what’s so funny?” the lawman asked.

“I—we”—she motioned to Giganti—“are playing a game, you see. A friend, a fellow sculptor, thought it would be a great trick to steal my tools and lead me on a scavenger hunt,” she added quickly. “That Monsieur Rodin!”

Oddly, her stomach clenched at the mention of her potential tutor’s name. She pushed the image of the intriguing man from her mind.

The officer raised his eyebrows. Before his skepticism could grow, Camille rushed to complete the lie. “I’ve found them in this field. And now, it is my turn to repay the favor. What would be a fitting punishment for such a wicked deed, monsieur? Perhaps I hide the plaster bust
he is slaving over? Or maybe his favorite chisel and mallet should disappear? Silly man. As if Rodin could get the best of me!” She pursed her lips in a pout.

“Well, mademoiselle, I . . .”

She winked at him as if he were her accomplice. “Don’t worry. I will come up with something.”

Shock stamped the policeman’s features.

Camille laughed again. The man did not know what to make of her. “I am certain you have many more important things to do this evening. Please, don’t let us keep you.” She brushed Giganti’s lips with hers in hopes of making the policeman uncomfortable.

“I-I apologize, mademoiselle, monsieur,” he stammered. “I’ll be on my way.
Bonsoir
.” He tipped his hat at Camille and the prostitute.

“Good evening,” Giganti replied. He covered his mouth with his fist.

When the carriage pulled away, the duo burst into laughter. The policeman remained frozen in the street, staring after them.

“You, my friend, are brilliant! A bit crazy, but brilliant.” Giganti flicked a chunk of dried mud from Camille’s chin. “It’s a good thing he didn’t know Rodin. The man would never play such a prank. He is far too solemn.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Thank you for your help tonight,” she said.

His features sobered. “Your kiss . . . You know I have a taste only for men?”

“It was a friendly kiss.” She squeezed his chin in her hand. “And now the policeman will assume we’re lovers looking for a bit of mischief, rather than thieves stealing through the night.”

“Well played, my dear Camille.”

A
fter six weeks, Camille had used nearly all of the clay she had stolen, but her bust of
Madame B
was coming along nicely. She munched on a bite of bread smeared with layers of goat cheese and confiture, and returned to her work. She and Emily had decided to skip a proper meal to work through the afternoon.

“The tea is ready. I bought some cakes as well.” Emily cut the string on the bakery box and raised the lid. Two fruited tarts glistened with glazed sugar.

“You really are English,” Camille said. “Tea and cakes in late afternoon.”

“And you are truly French.”

Camille stuck out her tongue and the women laughed.

“Sugar?” Emily filled two cups with scalding black liquid and fished two cubes from a bowl.

“Of course.” Camille examined Paul’s bust a last time before joining Emily at the table by the stove.

They sat in amiable silence; the only sound drifted in from the city’s street noise and the marching hands of the clock.

“I wonder if we’ll have a visit from Monsieur Rodin.” Camille broke the silence. She shocked herself at the sudden mention of his name. “He said he would send word the next day, if he was to accept the position. It has been nearly two months.” She grimaced. “I suppose we are beneath him.”

Camille remembered his expression as he raked his eyes over her work, how he had pointed out her shortcomings. Emily had gloated all afternoon about his not mentioning any of her flaws. She chewed her bottom lip at the thought.

“I’ve just heard some gossip about Monsieur Rodin,” Emily said. “A friend in London wrote to me when I mentioned he might be our new tutor.”

Camille clenched the teacup with force at the sound of his name on another’s lips. “What did she say about him?” She affected a bored tone.

“It’s quite scandalous. Judy said a French sculptor by the name of Auguste Rodin was accused of working directly from life castings for a piece called
The Age of Bronze
. The sculpture’s likeness to reality was claimed too real to be made by hand.”

Her pulse began to skip. “Is he a fraud as they say?”

Emily shrugged and popped a chunk of buttery crust laden with custard in her mouth. “Mmm. I am never disappointed. French food really is superior.”

“Of course it is,” she snapped, her irritation plain. She wanted to hear more, not talk about their national differences. “What happened to Monsieur Rodin? Was he banned from showing the piece?”

“It was shipped from Brussels to Paris for the Salon, but the same talk followed him here. His assistants and models were called in to attest to his honesty, but the Belgian authorities wouldn’t allow the models to cross the borders into France. Can you imagine?” Emily wiped her mouth with a cloth. “Several artists came to his aid. Dubois, Boucher, and Chapu. They all verified Rodin’s work. Apparently, his greatest problem is his refusal to conform to the classical approach. We should demand to see proof of his work if he returns here.” Emily’s eyes danced with excitement.

“I don’t care to see him again, or his work.” Camille stared at her reflection in her cup. “He stalked through here like a panther, criticized me, and left as quickly as he came.” She did not say how much she had hoped he would return, or that she waited for the post each day. But the letter did not come. A gray malaise gnawed the edges of her good humor. Monsieur Rodin had not found anything redeeming in her work.

Emily perked up at the knock at the door. “I will answer it.”

“It is likely to be my sister, Louise,” Camille said, standing as well to rinse her cup. “She said she might stop by today to see the studio.”

“Is Mademoiselle Claudel here?” A male voice drifted from the door—a voice Camille knew after only one meeting, a voice that had come to her in more than one dream since. The tempo of her heart increased.

Emily showed him inside. “Camille, Monsieur Rodin is here to see you.”

The sculptor walked into the room. “Good day, ladies.” He held his worn beret in his hands.

Camille cursed herself for the nervous energy pulsing through her veins. “Monsieur Rodin.” She did not hide her irritation. “I thought we would not have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

Emily gaped for an instant, then snapped her mouth shut.

“Forgive me for the delay. I have been very busy and did not have the time to respond as I had hoped. Until today, that is.”

“A letter would have been sufficient.” Camille couldn’t help herself. His indifference had made her feel foolish and undeserving, a little girl in a grown man’s world. It made her want to spit.

He frowned. “I won’t apologize again, Mademoiselle Claudel. I am a busy man.”

“So you said.” She crossed her arms to prevent the current of anger that roiled inside her from boiling over. She did not understand her reaction to him. Somehow he had managed to get under her skin, after she had met him only once.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Emily attempted to dispel the tension.

“No, thank you,” he replied.

“If I may be so bold to say, I am a great fan of your work,” Emily said.

Camille snorted. Emily had never seen his work.

Monsieur Rodin glanced at her, a question in his eyes. She got the distinct impression he had no idea what to make of her. But that was just as well. If she said what she really thought, she would need
another
tutor. She glanced at him and looked away. How
did
she feel about him? She flushed with embarrassment, though she hadn’t the slightest idea why.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Fawcett,” he said. “May I see what you have been working on lately?”

“I would be honored.” Emily held her hands together as if her prayer had been answered.

A pang hit Camille—of envy, or was it disappointment? Monsieur Rodin had not asked to see her pieces. She shook off the absurd feeling and focused once more on
Madame B
. The first rendering of the bust had been a mess. Today she would come close to completing its improved design.

Monsieur Rodin followed Emily to her statue of a little girl.

“Nice work here,” he said. “The folds of her dress appear fluid. A swirl of silk and cotton around her knees.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Emily wrung her hands again.

At last Rodin turned his azure gaze on Camille. “And yours, mademoiselle?”

She tossed her head to flick the fringe of dark hair out of her eyes. Why in God’s name did this man make her feel less than confident? Without a word, she removed the cover over Paul’s bust.

“You have repaired it, I see.” He peered at the piece. “This line of his jaw.” He stepped back and squinted.

She tried to appear disinterested, yet clung to his every word.

“A job well done, Mademoiselle Claudel.”

Her rigid shoulders melted like a mound of clay in a rainstorm.

Monsieur Rodin ran a thumb gently over the bridge of Paul’s nose. “If you are still in need of a tutor—”

“We are!” Emily cut in. “Pardon me, monsieur. We would be honored to accept your aid.”

He nodded and looked to Camille for verification.

Something stirred in her breast—relief, delight, and something more she could not name. She relished his uncertainty. But she knew the moment she had first laid eyes upon the man she would not reject his help. Something about him . . .

“When will we begin?” she asked at last.

Monsieur Rodin smiled somewhere beneath his beard.

Auguste found himself on the doorstep at the atelier on the Rue Notre Dame des Champs the following day. He had planned to work all afternoon, but his feet had a mind of their own. His hand hovered near
the brass knocker. Would Mademoiselle Claudel accept his assistance? Last night he could not shake the woman’s face from his mind. Her demeanor intrigued him—sharp, yet eager for praise. He saw it in the way the muscles in her face relaxed at his compliments, the way her indigo eyes shifted from challenging to warm.

Auguste looked down at his newly polished shoes and adjusted his scarf.

The door flew open without warning. He stumbled backward, knocking into a man on the street. “I beg your pardon!” he said, flustered. The man grimaced and kept walking.

“What a pleasant surprise, Monsieur Rodin,” Mademoiselle Fawcett said. “I was on my way to fetch a few things. Would you care to come in?”

“I’ve come to begin lessons. I had some extra time today,” he lied. He didn’t have a single spare moment and yet, suddenly this was the only place he wanted to be.

An eager smile lit her face. “Very good. I will go later.”

Inside, a model lounged on a chair as if waiting for instruction. Auguste stopped to stare. He knew well the dark ringlets that framed the model’s high cheekbones and angular chin. Giganti, who hailed from Naples; he had worked with him several times in the past. Curious he should find Giganti here, in a novice’s studio. As a professional, he could work with anyone he chose. Auguste felt a strange twinge at his presence there. Perhaps he would hire the model again.

Mademoiselle Claudel, engrossed in her task, did not notice his arrival. She pounded a pile of mushy clay with a wooden rod. A few minutes more and she could roll it into loaves.

“
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.” Rodin stopped beside her prepping table.

The thwack of her tool ceased and her vivid blue gaze met his. “You’ve returned, Monsieur Rodin?” she asked, her surprise evident.

A nervous twinge niggled in his stomach. “I have extra time today. Unexpected, but pleasant, so I thought we would begin your lessons. We will start at the Louvre.”

“We’ll not work in the studio?” She dropped the wooden instrument into a bucket with the others and began massaging the clay into thick ropes. Her dainty hands moved swiftly over the length of them, doubling them in width.

The twinge returned and he looked at the floor.

Giganti rushed to greet the famous sculptor. “Monsieur Rodin! Am I to have the privilege of working with you this afternoon?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I’m certain we will sometime soon.” He glanced at Mademoiselle Claudel, as if seeking her agreement. She continued her work without looking up.

Auguste cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Claudel, will you join us?” Somehow he knew he should request she join them and not require it. This woman would not be told what to do.

“Indeed, monsieur, I will.” She washed her hands in a basin and dried them on a dingy cloth.

“Allow me,
mon amie
.” Giganti helped her slide on her coat.

Auguste raised an eyebrow at the familiar tone with which the model addressed her. Was there something between them?

Mademoiselle Claudel smiled and kissed Giganti on each cheek. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow morning? The clay is prepared so we can get started immediately.”

Giganti beamed at her. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll see you in the morning.”

A foreign sentiment gnawed at Auguste’s stomach.

Mademoiselle Claudel met his eye once more, but this time mischief lurked there. “May I?” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. Surprised, he said nothing, though his blood warmed.

Mademoiselle Fawcett stared for an instant, appearing surprised by the gesture as well.

Auguste didn’t know what to make of the young woman’s bold behavior, but it appealed to him. She was different from any woman he had ever met.