Rodin's Lover

by Heather Webb

  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.”

  Chapter 13

  Camille 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.”

  The look she had come to recognize appeared on his features once more. “You critique my work, mademoiselle?”

  She flipped her knife over and over again on the table next to her plate. “Can’t we all learn from criticism?”

  He did not answer, but fixed his blue eyes upon her. She squirmed under his gaze—he had a way of making her feel exposed.

  “So we can,” he said at last.

  “You are under a lot of pressure to produce. You mustn’t let the ministers come between you and your passion, though they may try.”

  “They certainly try. But we artists must band together to beat them down.”

  “Us against them!”

  He held up his glass. “Us against them. To always learning, to moving forward!”

  She clanged her glass against his and smiled. To moving forward, indeed.

  The day’s light sputtered and waned and with it, artists vacated their posts to head home. Marcel, the last of them, waved his hat at Rodin and closed the door behind him. Camille should have left as well, but did not look up from her task. She chipped another fragment of marble away. The set of feet would soon need to be sanded and polished. After her fifth pair, she could create them almost without thinking.

  Monsieur Rodin flitted about the studio, lighting the lamps. Soon, the shadows retreated to the corners of the room and crept toward the gulf of ceiling and the darkened loft. He planned to continue working. Camille glanced at a woman’s bust across from her station. Her eyes appeared suspicious of Camille’s intentions.

  “I am here to work, nothing more,” she whispered to the bust. How had the object read her thoughts? She puffed out a sharp breath and blew away the crumbled bits of stone covering the feet.

  Rodin bent over a study of a seated man leaning forward on his hand to contemplate theories of the universe.

  “I would place his hand slightly over his mouth. As he is now, he appears as if he is posing.” Camille put down her carving chisel and selected a rasp to buff the rounded hump of each heel.

  Rodin gave her a sidelong glance.

  She smiled. She supposed he did not expect her input, but she was no longer a lowly assistant; he respected her opinions . . . or so she assumed. If he did not, she would offer them anyway.

  “The muscles in his legs and arms appear flexed,” she continued. “He looks as if he might spring from his seat, rather than lose himself in his thoughts. I suppose it depends on the point you are trying to convey.”

  He rotated the maquette on its base. “I think you may be right.”r />
  Camille smiled. They had spent a lot of time working together lately. Though the growing familiarity between them unnerved her, she couldn’t seem to leave when the others did, especially when she might have time with him alone.

  The soft thwap of Rodin’s tools floated above their heads and was lost in the chasm of the ceiling. Camille moved to his side to view his piece. “Lovely.” His eyes softened. She could sense the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth that emanated from him. She felt a burn spread from her core through her limbs and crawl across her cheeks.

  Slowly, his hand stretched toward her. Her heart stopped. He paused for an instant, then brushed the hair off her forehead, his fingertips feather light over her skin. The burn deepened until she felt ablaze. She dared not move, or even breathe.

  Her voice came out in a whisper. “I am your student.” She knew his reputation with women, though she had yet to see any truth behind the rumors. Still, he had everything and everyone he wanted—but he would not have her. Yet her fingers trembled.

  “You are a brilliant woman.” His voice came low, guttural. He reached for her again and cupped her face.

  Without thinking, Camille closed her eyes and leaned into the cradle of his palm. Her heart pounded against her rib cage. How right it felt, his hand upon her cheek. But she couldn’t risk her reputation, regardless of her own desire. No one would take her seriously. She would be nothing more than a mime, his student, not an artist in her own right. Her eyes flicked open to find him inches from her face.

  She pulled away, her knees suddenly weak. “I need to go. Mother will wonder where I am.”

  If he knew Camille better, he would realize Mother no longer assumed she would be home to dine with the family, or even cared as to her whereabouts. She grabbed her hat from the rack near the door and tied its black ribbons hastily under her chin. At the door, she glanced over her shoulder a final time. “Bonsoir.”

  Rodin raised his hand in a silent wave.