Rodin's Lover (12 page)

A titter of laughter rippled through the room.

Mother’s face, screwed into a disdainful sneer, came to mind. She would have much to say about such a scene. Thankfully, she’d never know.

“
Ça suffit!
” a familiar voice roared—an uncharacteristic outburst for the rumble of hammering, chiseling, and male banter ceased. “These women are my pupils and fine
artistes
. You’ll treat them with respect or find another place of employment.” Monsieur Rodin loomed in a doorway leading to an adjoining room. His ginger beard blazed in the room awash in pale light.

Camille noted the immediate attention his quiet yet commanding presence demanded. His frame exuded strength, a power derived from years of experience, from passion and talent. He seemed solid as granite—unmovable, even unbreakable.

Suddenly she longed to see his softer side.

“
Oui
, monsieur,” a few of his assistants called out.

Camille smirked at Alain and the woolly mammoth. She had the master on her side. Still, she must prove her worth or she’d look a fool. But that would happen soon enough.

“Follow me, ladies. I will show you the rest of the studio.” Rodin abruptly returned to the room from whence he came.

Camille did not miss the female models watching them as they disappeared through the doorway. They would get over their shock as well, and show her respect. She would not be viewed as another of Rodin’s conquests.

“This is my office.” He motioned to a room with a simple oak desk and shelves packed with volumes on cathedrals and history, and artist manuals. Each corner of the room was piled with a mountain of abandoned maquettes on the verge of avalanche.

Camille plucked a severed goblin’s head from his desk and poked her thumb inside the gaping mouth. Even his small pieces appeared alive. She turned it over in her hand, leaving a trail of chalky grit on her palm. “May I?”

Rodin nodded and she slipped it into her satchel.

“Come. I’ll show you the marble room.” He led them down a short corridor and into another large room.

Camille gazed at the array of unfinished statues, broken limbs, and uneven blocks of marble: Parian and Pentelic, the fine-grained limestone from Carrière, and blue-gray Carrara, all sorted by type. The men they had seen carrying the block outdoors now placed their load in the designated lot.

“I’ve always wanted to work with marble.” Camille caressed the bumpy surface of a small stone.

Jessie leaned against another milky slab.

Camille’s eyes lost their focus as she retreated into the dreamy haze of her mind. She knew exactly what she would do with this piece if it were hers.

“All in good time.” Rodin’s features displayed his amusement. “You have much to learn first. Let me show you the studies for the piece you’ll be working on.
The Gates of Hell
. This way.”

Camille sighed. Today marked the beginning of her labor being devoted to another’s cause. She would have to sketch her new idea that evening.

After several weeks, Auguste couldn’t help but notice Mademoiselle Claudel’s sullen behavior. She possessed such a playful energy and yet he saw none of it in his atelier, only her scarcely controlled irritation. He scooped a coil of clay from beneath a damp cloth and squashed it between his hands. She had arrived every day as they had agreed, except Fridays, when he visited the Rue de Notre Dame des Champs. He read the frustration in the way she heaved load after load of plaster up a ladder, in the way she snapped at the other workers, and in the scowl on her pretty face that deepened as the day went on. She seemed to detest everyone, and above all, him.

A shot of pain coursed through him, a pain he did not understand. Why should he care what Mademoiselle Claudel thought of him?

Auguste molded one torso, then a second. Despite her talent, the young woman must learn humility and flexibility—it was the only way to survive the rejections awaiting her. He knew their sting well.

A tap at his office door pulled him from his thoughts. “
Entrez,
” he said, tossing the intertwined bodies on his desk.

Mademoiselle Claudel entered, her wavy mane slipping from its pins. Several clumps of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. He took in her slumped shoulders, her downturned mouth.

“It has been twelve hours,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”

He nodded. “These are the hours any professional atelier keeps. You may go now.”

For the second time that day her fleshy lower lip protruded slightly. “I’ll never have time to work on my own pieces. I have class tomorrow.”

“You will find a way. I’ve walked the same path. It’s imperative to our growth and our humility.”

A mixture of yearning and frustration filled her eyes. She looked down, and rubbed her hands together to loosen the grime caked in the grooves of her skin.

Auguste sensed she might cry and he felt his insides soften. The thought of crushing her passionate spirit, even for an instant, sent another wave of pain through him. His road had been more difficult initially—so what? Did that mean she must suffer as he had? It was difficult enough to make a name for herself as a woman.

“Follow me, mademoiselle.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I won’t do another thing today, Monsieur Rodin.”

He waved her forward. “I have something to show you.”

After a moment of hesitation, she followed him to the marble room.

The sun had begun to set; streaks of gold and pink filtered through the windows and glittered over the facets of irregular stone, casting the entire room in a shimmering, rosy light. Auguste stopped in the center of the room and spread his arms wide. “Select any piece you like.”

Mademoiselle Claudel’s lovely eyes widened and the first smile he had seen in weeks played on her lips. He did love to please a woman, but somehow, she was different, more important. Her happiness set his blood humming in his veins.

“Any piece?” she asked.

Auguste nodded.

Mademoiselle Claudel surveyed the uneven slabs of marble, some with rivers of gray, others with speckled sand or beige, even a rare hunk of jade. She stroked their surfaces lovingly and inspected their shapes from many angles. At last she lifted a small alabaster stone.

“You’ve chosen a fragile stone,” he said. “It cracks easily unless you have had quite a bit of practice with it. Perhaps a more solid stone for your first try?”

Her eyes settled on his face. “No, I’ve found the one I want.”

C
amille rolled her head from side to side, chisel in one hand, hammer in the other. She had worked with the gifted alabaster all week. She did not mind exerting such effort for her own sculptures, but the endless days of ladder climbing, lugging buckets of water or plaster—the menial chores—bored her senseless and suffocated her inspiration. The pay Rodin awarded her was hardly worth it, though she had to admit she liked to be near him.

She looked out her atelier window at the cheery morning light. She would skip classes, though it had already been weeks since she had attended. She did not have the energy for it. She bent over her piece once more and brushed the crumbs of rock away. Should she go to the atelier today to appease Rodin, or work more? Stupid girl, she berated herself. He did not care whether she was there or not. That settled it. She put chisel to stone and hammered against it with her mallet. She had too much to do here, at any rate.

Mademoiselle Claudel did not return to Rodin’s atelier for a week and then two. Auguste sighed for the fifth time in the span of an hour. Both her absence and a letter from a minister to check on his progress of the
Gates
grated on him.

“It’ll be finished when it’s finished,” he muttered under his breath. They didn’t seem to grasp how much time it took to create something
worthwhile. With a fine wire tool, he scratched at his figure’s nose and threads of clay fell away.

Why hadn’t Mademoiselle Claudel returned? His apprentice did not seem interested in rejoining his crew. She was so talented; in time her pieces would rival those of any man. Hell, they already outshone those of most of his male apprentices.

“What did you say, monsieur?” Adèle asked without shifting a single muscle.

“Be still,” he replied.

Mademoiselle Lipscomb had returned, day after day, and claimed she had no idea whether or not her friend would return. Maybe she had been sworn to secrecy? Women loved their secrets.

Adèle yawned.

“Get dressed.” Auguste pitched his tool in the pile with the others with more force than necessary. “I’ll return in a couple of hours.”

Adèle stared at him in surprise—he rarely left in the middle of a session, especially with such good light. Sunshine radiated through the glass panes.

He would see for himself what had kept Mademoiselle Claudel away.

After some time dallying in the street, Auguste knocked at Mademoiselle Claudel’s atelier door. She must be there. He knew she would not waste such a grand day for sculpting. He met no answer.

Two ladies passed behind him on the street, one leading a poodle on a leash, the other talking at a clip, relating the details of some family drama.

He knocked again. Still no reply. He peered up at a clear sky to see a bird dip after its insect prey. Another moment and he would go.

The screech of a hinge in need of oil put a smile on his face. As he suspected, she was working.

“What brings you here, Monsieur Rodin?” Camille stood in the doorway, a cigarette perched precariously on the edge of her plump lips.

His heart leapt in his chest. “You have missed work,” he said.

She shrugged. “I have been occupied. Would you care to come in?”

“What have you been working on?” His shoulders tensed as he followed her inside. Had she joined another atelier?

“These.” Mademoiselle Claudel uncovered a pair of hands extended from the hunk of alabaster he had gifted her. Slender fingers laced together as if uncertain whether or not they would poise for prayer.

Rodin stared intently at the piece, rotating it slowly, the better to examine the lissome fingers, squared knuckles, and fingernail grooves. The surface felt as smooth as any he had done himself.

“When did you learn to do this?” He tore his gaze away from the hands.

“I’ve watched the
praticiens
in your studio a hundred times. I memorized their techniques. Now I emulate them.”

“It is your first piece of stone?”

She nodded.

“Camille . . .” He stopped, aware he had breached a formality. He had no right to call her by her christened name. “I apologize—”

“Don’t.” She tapped her cigarette to free the end from its burden of ashes. “I am not offended.”

“This piece,” Auguste began again. “You are very skilled.” She should be one of his
praticiens
. He wanted her there, working beside him. He wanted her.

The realization struck him at once and he leaned on his heels to steady himself. Her frank demeanor and the direct ardor of her gaze got under his skin and soaked into his very core. He would happily drown in the indigo depths of her eyes, in her fierce passion. And yet, she would laugh at him if he dared say something so inane aloud, he was certain. He walked to the window to regain control of his emotions.

“Do you like my hands?” She exhaled a stream of smoke.

He turned to face her. “You are as skilled as any of my
praticiens
. These hands pulse with life.”

“I am not sure if I’ll return, monsieur. As you can see, I am quite busy here and I do not like to sacrifice so much of my time.” She dragged on her cigarette once more.

She did not want his instruction and she certainly did not want him. His head drooped forward at his own stupidity. Of course she did not want him; he was twice her age.

“Have you seen my bust of Giganti?” she drawled in her provincial speech. “I think you’ll find it agreeable, as you would say.”

Auguste followed her to her worktable.

“It’s nearly finished,” she said. “I would like to show it in May at the Salon.”

He ran his hands over the plaster, eyes closed, feeling each lump and groove. “Shave this cheekbone, and lift his chin a bit and this will be ready.”

A spark lit her eyes and pure happiness dawned on her face. He tingled at her smile, an unwitting gift to him.

Mademoiselle Claudel averted her gaze and crushed the butt of her cigarette in a plaster ashtray.

Auguste would write a letter to a minister friend on her behalf. She deserved to show there—this piece would do well.

“Do you often work alone?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

She moved across the room to wash her hands. “Yes, I often work alone. Jessie is dedicated, but I suppose I am—”

“Possessed?”

“Obsessed.” She laughed. “
Exactement
.”

“I understand the sentiment well,” he said quietly. He stared at her unwillingly, as if he could not help but be captured by her.

The laughter died on her lips. “I’m certain you are the only one who does.”

The intensity that radiated from her person pressed against him. God, but he wanted to take her in his arms.

He cleared his throat. “Can you pause for a break? I am going to dine. Would you care to join me?”

She removed her smock, a brilliant smile on her lovely face. “I’m starved.”

Camille entered the Café Ormond, Rodin at her heels. He had come to check on her—he valued her work! Excitement fluttered in her chest.

Monsieur Rodin pulled a chair out for her and she sat, pretending not to notice his eyes following her. To have his approval filled her with
pride, yet she did not wish to be a slave in his workshop, despite how much she had learned in the months since she had joined him. But perhaps she could stomach it a bit longer . . . if he asked her to. She had not realized how much she missed his face during the weeks she had not returned to work.

They ordered a meal of filet of pork with potatoes and greens, and red wine.

“How is the
Gates
coming?” she asked. “I assume you’re still in hell?”

A hearty laugh rumbled in his throat. How she liked to make him laugh. He didn’t seem put off by her provincial speech and brash nature—a good thing, as she had no intention of changing herself for anyone. She knew who she was.

“Yes, I’m in hell,” he said, “though I’ve created studies for new figures.”

“And your Monsieur Hugo?”

“I have several maquettes, dozens of drawings. I’ll commence the bust next week.” He forked a thick slice of pork into his mouth.

They ate in companionable silence.

After Camille’s final bite of potato, she asked, “Have you seen the new vehicles powered by steam? I’d die to ride in one. Who can resist the adventure?”

That expression crossed his face again—the arched brow followed by a twinkling in his eye and a smile. He seemed amused by everything she said.

“A friend of mine owns one,” he said. “They’re an abomination, all of these inventions. Industrialization chokes our countryside and clogs our minds. ‘Progress’ diminishes beauty. It separates man from nature.”

Monsieur Rodin’s ice blue irises dilated and a cloud perched upon his peppered brow. His coppery hair reflected the passion lurking beneath his cool exterior, though from what little she knew of him, he did not often show it, but channeled it into his work. His aloof manner covered a deep sense of humility and timidity, and the sharpest mind she had ever encountered.

“The noise and the smoke,” she agreed. “I miss Villeneuve some days. The wind, moonlight on wheat fields. The feeling of stark wilderness and being completely alone.”

“One day our art form will disappear completely. Our handwork will no longer be admired. Machines will carve marble, and they’ll sell replicas of our busts like candy.”

She sat back in her chair. “I disagree. What man can do will always be admired, despite machinery and progress. There is no substitute for human understanding of emotion.”

Monsieur Rodin leaned forward. “Except for one issue. What is determined beautiful will shift, just as it has through the ages. And I fear that ideal may not include man at all.” He folded his napkin and laid it across his plate. “Industrialization is nothing but a ruse to make man feel as if he is above his work, not tied to the fields he plows, the house he keeps day after day, his relationships. But he is not above any of it. In fact, he needs those things to feel whole.”

Camille met his gaze a moment too long without speaking, and her face warmed.

“Perhaps I am struggling too much with the
Gates
,” he said.

She set down her glass. “You struggle because you focus on the form and movement. Vitality emanates from your work—that is true—but you don’t capture what tortures your subjects.”