Rodin's Lover (15 page)

C
amille shifted closer to her brother on the settee and leaned against his shoulder. “I’m telling you, I heard it. A voice told me to run from Monsieur Rodin or he might hurt me.”

Paul puffed out an exasperated breath. “We have been over this all afternoon. Must we talk about it again?”

“How would you feel if a demon voice spoke to you?” she insisted.

“Monsieur Rodin won’t hurt you, Camille.” He wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “He may steal all your time, perhaps an idea of yours, but he would not harm you.”

Her mind whirred. Was she hearing things, or had some part of her subconscious warned her about him? She wasn’t sure. She squeezed her eyes closed and forced the thought away.

It had to be nothing.

The heat of midafternoon pressed upon Camille and Jessie while they worked. Camille wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her smock. She had perspired all morning and now the afternoon had become unbearable. Though it was early autumn, the sun had not yet ceased its punishing heat. She jumped down from her perch above her maquette, submerged a cloth in the water basin, wrung much of the moisture from it, and remounted the ladder. It had been difficult to keep her sculptures moist in the oppressive heat, despite the humid air.

“I’ve had enough,” Camille said, covering
Shakuntala
. Not only was she boiling from the sun’s heat, but she burned at the thought of Auguste. She could not expel him from her mind and she resented it, never mind the strange voice. It had spoken to her that night he held her, and warned her about him. Still, they had kissed twice more; the last time Camille had pulled him against her and threaded her fingers through his beard. He had moaned and rested his forehead on hers. Her knees had nearly buckled in response to the delicious sound.

“Stop it,” she mumbled to herself. She had more important things to ponder—finishing her next piece for the Salon and landing a commission, for example. Her wages from Auguste and the money from her parents scarcely covered her expenses for supplies.

“I am ready for a pause as well,” Jessie said, placing a cloth on her own piece.

“Shall we go to the Musée des Antiquités?” Camille asked. “Do some drawing?”

“It’s a bit far for today, isn’t it?” Jessie washed her hands and face in cool water.

She shrugged. “Less than twenty kilometers, and a quick ride by train. It would be a nice reprieve from the city heat.”

And from her thoughts.

Jessie patted her face dry with a cloth. “An escape from the city
would
be lovely.”

A short ride later, the girls descended from the train at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The afternoon sun slid from its pedestal in the sky, yet heat radiated from the paved walkway, and muggy air stuck in their throats and clung to their clothing.

“It is days like these I detest being a woman,” Camille said, swishing her skirts to create a breeze on her sweaty legs. She regarded the array of fountains, the gardens and gravel pathways laid out in a geometric pattern. Their mathematical design seemed in opposition to the riotous beauty of the flowers bursting from their pots. She peered up at the stone castle, once a king’s playground, a hospital, and now the museum’s showroom—one of her favorite places to derive inspiration. She glanced back toward the fountain. “Come!” She grabbed Jessie by the hand and led her toward it. “First, we cool off.”

“No.” Jessie pulled her hand from Camille’s grasp.

“Don’t be such a prude. If you come with me, I will tell you a secret.”

Jessie stopped in her tracks. “Is it a commission? Has someone bought a piece of yours?”

Camille barked a laugh. “I wish that were true.” She skipped the remaining distance to the fountain.

“Really, Camille.” She caught up to her. “One might think you were a little girl.”

“Aren’t I?” Her laughter burst with glee as she unlaced her boots.

“You aren’t going in?” Jessie asked, horrified.

“Why not?” She gathered her skirts and climbed over the edge of the fountain, sighing contentedly as a current of cool water curled around her sweltering toes and ankles. “The water is divine. Come in.” She held out her hand to assist Jessie.

Her friend crinkled her nose. “Absolutely not. You are embarrassing yourself.”

Several couples gawked at Camille as they strode toward the museum. She splashed around and laughed, spraying Jessie in the process.

“Do not get me wet!” Jessie moved away from the fountain’s edge. “Come out of there at once. We will be asked to leave!”

Camille skipped her foot over the water’s surface once more, spraying a bevy of cooing pigeons, who skittered out of the way. Lower skirts drenched, she sloshed to the edge and hoisted herself over the rim of the fountain once more. Rivulets of water streamed down her legs and pooled around her feet.

“You’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of stockings,” Jessie said. “And perhaps your dress.”

Camille looked down at her clothing. Why did she behave so brashly? Her will was stronger than her sense of reason at times. Was that the price for being so passionate? “They will dry soon enough in this heat,” she said.

“You had better dry or I won’t sit by you on the train,” Jessie said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, out with it.”

“Out with what?” Camille laughed wickedly.

“Do not play coy with me, young lady. Your secret!”

While wringing out her skirts Camille said, “He kissed me.”

“What? Who kissed you?”

“Monsieur Rodin.”

Jessie stared. “No! Camille, that won’t do. He is our teacher. He’s—”

“I know.” She tilted her face to the expanse of summer sky and sighed. “And yet, my senses betray me. I step into the circle of his energy and I am consumed.”

“I cannot condone this,” Jessie said. “You must control yourself, no matter how hard that may be.”

Camille flinched at her disapproval. She did not wish to be entangled with Rodin—she had promised herself she would steer clear of him. Yet she found herself thinking of little else. Each night when she closed her eyes, his scent of sandalwood filled her senses. Her fingers tingled, anxious to probe the shape of his face, the curve of his lips.

“Oh, Camille.” Jessie rested her hand on her chest as if surprised. “You have a fire in your eyes. Your cheeks are blooming. You are in love with him.”

The words hit Camille like a blow. She couldn’t be in love with him. Her art meant too much to her. If things disintegrated between them, it would be a disaster extricating herself from his influence.

“You know he lives with a woman and has a son with her. Rose Beuret.” Jessie’s face was a mask of concern.

Rodin lived with the woman still? Her damp skirts became irritating against her skin, the beauty of the museum and its gardens insulting. The euphoria buoying her for days drained from her body, leaving her hollow. She knew he had a son, but she hadn’t realized he lived with a woman still. Had Camille been in the privacy of her bedroom, she would have smashed something and dissolved into tears. But she would not appear a fool in front of Jessie.

“What has that to do with me?” Her words came out strangled.

Jessie’s mouth fell open. “That doesn’t concern you?”

Camille picked the leaves from a low-lying branch one by one, shredded them, and watched them flutter to the ground. She couldn’t imagine why the woman stayed with Rodin. Everyone knew he’d had lovers, or at least the rumors claimed he did. Mademoiselle Beuret must know. She clamped down hard on her tongue. How could she have feelings for a man who treated his lover with such disregard? She must keep her distance.

“I suppose it does. A little,” Camille admitted at last. She swallowed hard. “Are you ready to go inside?”

Jessie embraced her. “Keep your distance and all will be well, my friend.”

The girls ambled toward the museum.

Auguste pulled his lantern closer and hunched over his desk. He put charcoal to paper, and the hunk cracked and split, leaving a trail of black crumbs on his sketch. The martyrs of Calais stared vacantly in the distance and were now crowned by a dusting of black stars, vacuous and absent of light. The stars absorbed life from the weary men. Auguste pressed his finger on the specks and smudged them across the page. A wind tunnel appeared beneath his thumb, poised to suck Eustace, leader of the martyrs, into oblivion. He thought of the swirled tangle of Camille’s hair after a long day’s work.

Perhaps it was he who would be swept away.

A smile played on his lips at the thought of her wildness, her bold expression. Her advice on the placement of the statues had been brilliant. He labored over his visions, while she drew on her inspiration and never questioned its validity—a both admirable and foolish trait. Fledgling sculptors should question their techniques and the structure of their works to grow their talents. He snorted. He liked to pretend he was a master and she, a mere pupil, but she could hardly be called a fledgling sculptor. She learned in a few lessons what had taken him years to master. And she taught him as well.

Auguste plucked the maquette of the Calais monument from the corner of his desk. Omer Dewavrin had been pleased with his design, though many others opposed Auguste’s vision and crucified him in their reviews. But he would not produce the same tripe as every other sculptor before him. He turned his model over in his hand. His men appeared resolute, yet anguished to leave behind all they loved, to sacrifice their lives. Nevertheless, pride and nobility emanated from their stance. He would not succumb to his opponents’ lackluster vision. They did not recognize fine art.

Auguste pitched a loose hunk of clay across the room. It thudded against the window, then plopped onto the amber-colored hardwood
floor. If only his most ardent supporter had been reelected mayor. Omer had advocated for him, but now with him out of office, the commission was threatened. Auguste fished his friend’s letter from his drawer. Several other ministers wanted him out of the running, but he wouldn’t let that happen. He would leave for Calais tomorrow.

Auguste descended from the train in a pristine suit and hat. Rarely did he wear clothing not splattered or stained, but he knew when to put on airs, and he knew the right people to impress. He clutched his valise and crossed the platform at the Gare Calais-Ville, hired a cab, and rode the distance to Dewavrin’s home. The gentleman had offered him room for a few nights and to coordinate a meeting with another of the ministers of the
conseil municipal
.