Rodin's Lover: A Novel Page 8

  Monsieur Rodin paused to assess several of Amy’s unfinished pieces.

  “Those belong to a student who no longer works with us, monsieur,” Emily explained.

  The gentleman nodded, then continued to Emily’s Roman soldier, and finally to Paul’s bust. He leaned closer, eyes scrunched. Camille held her breath. Rodin circled the piece twice, pausing to view it from several angles.

  “Whose piece is this?” he asked.

  “It is Mademoiselle Claudel’s,” Emily said in a rush.

  His gaze flickered over Camille’s frame and returned to Paul at Thirteen. “These others are yours, I presume?” He motioned to several other studies Camille had begun but not yet finished.

  “Oui. They are mine.” Tension vibrated in her shoulders and neck. The man distinguished her style easily from the others, but did he like them or not?

  “This is your best.” He placed his hand atop Paul’s head. “But the contrast is too great between the fabric and his skin. Also between his skull and hairline.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Thank you, monsieur, for pointing out my faults.”

  Rodin did not react, but examined her array of tools. He picked up a molding knife, examined it, and returned it to the pile on the table.

  Camille clenched her fists at her sides, poised to receive more criticism. She did not know why, but suddenly she cared very much what the mysterious gentleman had to say. His presence unsettled her.

  “I will send word tomorrow to inform you of my decision,” he said at last. “If I am unable to tutor you, I will send recommendations for others.” He replaced his beret on his head. “For now, I must go.”

  Rodin strode to the door and paused. He locked eyes with Camille. She raised her chin, determined to appear calm under his unwavering gaze, though she quivered inside.

  “Thank you for sharing your work with me, mesdemoiselles,” he said. “Good day.”

  “Good day, monsieur. And thank you!” Emily tripped over herself to see him out and close the door behind him.

  Camille stood stunned in the middle of the room, struggling to pinpoint her feelings. This Rodin had swept through her atelier in a flurry, criticized her quickly, and disappeared. Had he found her lacking in ability? She thought of his gaze once more and his intensity—vigor, barely contained by limbs and flesh, rolled off him and filled the room. Such a quiet man, he was, with a large presence.

  “I guess we will hear his verdict tomorrow,” Emily said, picking up her chisel.

  After another long moment, Camille returned to the bust of Paul and worked with renewed alacrity. She would show Monsieur Rodin smooth lines—if he deemed them worthy of his attention.

  She worked long beyond sunset, until her fingers throbbed with cold.

  Auguste soaked a hunk of bread in his cabbage soup and gulped down a salty bite. The young woman had too much pride. He could see it in the arrogant tilt of her chin. Mademoiselle Claudel had not been broken by rejection as he had, yet he sensed she had steeled herself for criticism just the same. She was a woman in a man’s world, after all. He could not help but be impressed by her passion. It was immediately apparent in her pieces.

  He slurped down his soup until the spoon clinked against the bottom of his tin bowl. Camille Claudel would be a difficult pupil, but she held a great deal of promise—if she would listen. He mused at the way she had rankled at his criticism. The other student showed no more talent than his mother, who had dabbled in painting on rainy afternoons, but he would work with both women if he chose to visit the atelier again.

  “Auguste, would you read to me this evening?” Rose’s whiny voice never failed to grate on his nerves. “I have missed you this long day.” She kissed him on his crown of dark amber hair.

  “Not tonight. I have work to do.”

  Her face fell. “You avoid me.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” His voice remained calm, though he prickled at her words. He tired of the same arguments.

  Sensing his irritation, Rose wrung her hands and said, “I will send up a pot of tea and biscuits.”

  “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.

  Chapter 9

  Camille 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 h
is 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.”

  Chapter 10

  After 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.