Paris Kiss (14 page)

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I would tell them about Hersilie later.

Camille put away her sketchpad. ‘It's horrible here, isn't it? I've been in prisons and in orphanages, but there's something depressing about this place, I don't know what it is. I thought they would be strange, different somehow from normal people, but instead they just seem so hopeless, and so sad.'

Georges shrugged. ‘Let's go, then. The morgue is more cheerful. I'll see if I can prise Rosa away from her latest conquest.'

In the cab I took out the letter Hersilie had given me, intending to show it to the others. It was folded and sealed with candle wax. I turned it over. Scrawled across it in a shaky hand were some words in rusty red ink. I sniffed and smelled the unmistakeable metallic tang of dried blood. It was addressed to Jeanne d'Arc. So, she was mad, after all. I crumpled up the letter and threw it out of the window. I watched the walls of La Salpêtrière recede behind us, vowing I would never set foot in a hellhole like that again.

Chapter 24

Paris

1929

I shifted slightly on Georges' ridiculous sofa, and managed only to sink further into the pile of cushions.

‘Georges, do you think she was mad?'

‘Who, that woman at the ball?
Fou à lier, je dirais
. Sane people don't have a correspondence with Joan of Arc.'

‘No, I meant Camille.' He was silent for a while. I took one of his hands, the one that still worked. It was liver spotted, like mine, but his touch felt the same as it had more than thirty years before. ‘You know what happened to her, don't you?' I said.

He nodded without looking at me. ‘We all did. She wrote to me, to her agent, to all her friends in the art world. There was a brouhaha for a while, of course. I did what I could, wrote to her brother, to the newspapers. Then the letters stopped and after a while the articles dwindled. War broke out the following year and I, well, I forgot about her.'

I slipped my hand under his so we were palm to palm. ‘You saw things no one should see. It's understandable.'

He closed his fingers over mine. ‘I survived, others didn't. But when I came back, I couldn't sculpt.' He held up his useless hand. ‘My inheritance lasted until a few years ago and then I met Lotta. She'd had an unfortunate affair with a married man and his wife was threatening to tell all of Paris. I was a friend of her father, and he made me a generous offer if I'd make an honest woman of her.' So, I'd been right. He hadn't changed a bit. Georges met my eyes and winced, as if he knew what I was thinking. I tried to take my hand away but he held on. ‘Jessie, don't look at me like that. What else was I supposed to do? Can you see me working in a bank?' I shook my head. ‘So, no,' he said. ‘I didn't do anything about Camille. I forgot about her. We all did.'

I relented, and smiled at him. ‘You did what you could, and Paul had the law on his side.'

‘
Quel connard
.'

I squeezed his hand. ‘Georges, I'm trying to help her now, to build a case to get her out. If I could only find out if he had any grounds to put her away…'

‘Don't tell me she's still in an asylum?' I nodded and he closed his eyes. ‘My God! All these years! Poor Camille. I thought I had suffered, but can you imagine?'

I shook my head. ‘I can't. I try not to. Will you help me? I last saw her when we were all so young, and she was confined just before the war. Let me see…' I counted on my fingers. ‘She would have been nearly fifty. Georges, I need you to tell me what she was like when you last saw her. Was she mad?'

Georges stood up and went to a table that held decanters and glasses. He poured brandy and splashed soda into our crystal tumblers. He stared into the middle distance, as if remembering. ‘For a while, in the late 90s, Camille had a good run. She seemed to get out from under Rodin's shadow, forged her own way with smaller pieces, delicate little things with unusual subjects. There was one I particularly liked, an intimate group of women, and behind them a tidal wave threatens while they are oblivious to the danger. Extraordinary – such a small piece and this overwhelming sense of peril.'

He swirled his brandy and thought for a moment. ‘I bumped into her one day, must have been '97, at the Salon. I remember the year because I had a piece in too. Camille told me she'd left Rodin and was working on her own in a studio. I almost didn't recognise her – she was plastered in make-up, like a terrible painted mask. Her voice was strange too, dull, and mechanical. She had put on a lot of weight. Remember how beautiful she was once, with that perfect 90s figure? I miss that shape – the young girls are so flat nowadays.' I shot him a look and he cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, yes, where was I?'

‘Camille, you were talking about when you saw her last.'

‘Ah yes.' He stared into his drink again and went on.

Sensing she was isolated, Georges had called on her at her studio at boulevard d'Italie. Camille had been friendly enough. She was looking out of the window and singing some street ditty when he arrived with a basket of peaches and a bottle of vintage champagne. Camille had laughed at his extravagance and let him in, teasing him like in the old days. She showed him what she was working on and they talked shop.

‘She seemed out of touch with what was going on, wanted to hear the gossip from the Latin Quarter, who was showing where and, in particular, who was being commissioned. The studio was a hell of a mess – none of those feminine touches I remember from your
atelier
at rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. But, then, Camille was never exactly
bonne femme
material.' Georges took a sip and wiped his moustache. ‘When I left she promised to call on me, but I didn't hear from her for months. Finally, she sent me a note saying she'd been ill and she'd get in touch when she was better, but she never did. Soon after, the stories started about her odd behaviour.'

‘Odd in what way?'

‘Accusing her friends of plotting against her, wild irrational outbursts and raving letters. She couldn't keep a model, kept sacking them. She said they were stealing her ideas. You know what models are like – word went round and soon nobody wanted to work for her. And there was this terrible, public rift with Rodin over one of her pieces, an important commission. I heard he used all his powers to block it when he saw it in her studio. I spoke to him about it and he wouldn't discuss it other than saying the sculpture was a personal affront and an invasion into his private affairs. I must say, when I eventually saw it myself I wasn't surprised.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing; Rodin had always been our supporter, and he'd adored Camille, hailing her in public correspondence as
une femme de génie
, and had always praised her courage in sculpting subjects that were not then considered suitable for a woman.

‘Are you sure about that?' I said. ‘The Rodin I knew would never object to a sculpture. I can't imagine him censoring Camille, when he was so revolutionary himself.'

‘It's better if I show you.' Georges fetched a catalogue and opened it at a photograph. ‘Here it is, see for yourself.'

In the picture, captioned
L'Age Mûr
,
I saw a young woman, on her knees, begging a middle-aged man – obviously Rodin – not to leave her. He was being led away by a naked crone who looked cruelly like Rose Beuret, with sagging bosoms and a drooping stomach. There could be no doubt about it to anyone who knew about their story. It was there for anyone to see, their triangular dance of love, guilt and hatred exposed to the world.

I passed my hand over the picture of the young girl. ‘It's powerful. But I can see how he might object.' Georges sat down next to me on the sofa and we looked at the picture together. I remembered all the times we had stood in front of sculptures and paintings like this.

‘Camille managed to get it shown, eventually,' Georges said, interrupting my thoughts. ‘She always insisted the piece wasn't autobiographical but an allegory about youth and age. Rodin didn't see it that way, said she was making a fool of him, washing their dirty linen in public. You know how he hated to have his affairs discussed, thought it diminished his standing to be gossiped about in the cafés and salons.' He sighed and closed the book. ‘In a way I don't blame Camille for being so bitter – he never did leave Rose Beuret despite all his promises, and strung her along for years. The sculpture made it all public and Rodin never forgave her.'

Georges told me that when it was shown at the 1903 Salon,
L'Age Mûr
was poorly received and lambasted for being a shabby copy of Rodin's work. It seemed Camille was destined always to be compared to Rodin.

‘The last time I saw her was in her new studio, on L'Île St Louis, in the early 1900s,' Georges said. ‘It was peaceful out there on the banks of the Seine, surrounded by trees, the scent of apples coming off the barges as they floated down the river to market. She was even heavier by then, her face bloated and prematurely aged, her hair greasy and in disarray, but her eyes were bright and she seemed content. She was working on a new sculpture on the theme of Perseus and the Gorgon. From what I could see, Camille wasn't mad, no.'

Georges couldn't tell me any more. We talked a little longer about people who might be able to fill me in about Camille's last days in Paris.

‘You know who is still around and remembers the old days?' he said. ‘Remember Suzanne Valadon? She was a wild one! I'll give you her address – she still lives in Montmartre.' He walked me to the door.

I put my hand on his chest. ‘I'm sorry, Georges, that you had to stop sculpting. It must have been hard.'

His smile was rueful. ‘If I'm honest, I don't think I would have ever made it as an artist. Without money behind me, I wouldn't have stuck at it. Unlike Camille, I didn't have the stomach for it – the rejections and scrabbling about for commissions. But that's all in the past now. I do have one regret, though. Jessie, I've always wanted to tell you how sorry…'

‘Please, Georges, don't. Let's just say goodbye. We didn't get a chance last time.'

I put out my hand to shake his, but he folded me in his arms and held me. And, for a moment, I was twenty-two again in a studio in Montmartre.

Chapter 25

Montmartre, Paris

September 1884

The first time I met Suzanne Valadon was at Henri's studio. Of course, everyone knows the name Toulouse-Lautrec now, but at that time he was young, only twenty and, like us, still making his way as an artist. Georges had taken Camille, Rosa and I to his new friend's studio in Montmartre.

‘You'll like Henri,' he said as we waited in front of the door at the top of a grubby tenement stair. ‘His
five o'clocks
are legendary for going on all night. And his work is interesting,
avant garde
. I think he'll go far.'

Rosa snorted. ‘
Un avant gardist?
Not one of those tedious pointillists, I hope. Paris is full of myopic painters messing about with dots. It hurts my eyes to look at them.'

‘No, he's completely different.' Georges said. ‘Wait and see.'

Camille frowned. ‘Lautrec? How is it I've never heard of this oh-so-promising artist, if he is as good as you say he is?'

‘It's Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, from one of France's oldest families, a true aristocrat. He's quite a character.'

I was about to say William had met Toulouse-Lautrec and had given me one of his sketches, but held my tongue. I had been careful not to mention William in front of Georges since our quarrel, and I didn't want to spoil the party mood. Besides, England was a world away and I was in Montmartre, a wild neighbourhood, or so I'd heard, the haunt of criminals, prostitutes, artists and intellectuals, according to my Paris guide, which warned it was No Place for a Respectable Lady. I was thrilled.

Toulouse-Lautrec opened the door to his studio. Before us stood the most extraordinary man I'd ever seen. Georges had prepared us for his deformity and warned us not to stare. His torso was that of an adult's, but he had the legs of a child as a result of a hunting accident when he was twelve. What I had not expected to see was a small bearded man dressed as a Japanese geisha, in a kimono and a wig jiggling with hair ornaments. In his arms he cradled a yellow porcelain doll, swaddled in embroidered silk.

Catching me staring at him, he bowed. ‘Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec,
à votre service.
'

I closed my mouth.

Georges clapped him around the shoulder. ‘Henri, allow me to present Mesdemoiselles Jessie Lipscomb and Camille Claudel, two talented sculptors who work with me at Rodin's studio.'

Toulouse-Lautrec refastened his monocle and peered at Camille and me. ‘
L'atelier
Rodin, eh? You must be good. Women working with men,
quel scandale!
I met the great man in Montmartre not so long ago with Georges, do you remember,
mon vieux
? What a night! There was this absolutely charming Englishman with you – I am a shameless anglophile, you know, it's my chief weakness – who told me all about the science of stones. He talked with such
passion
; I'll never put on a pair of diamond studs again without thinking of him.'

‘Ah, that would be the redoubtable William.' Georges' tone was dry.

‘But he was fascinating, fascinating! And so lively and handsome, he made quite an impact on our crowd of dissolutes. All the little
demimondaines
couldn't get enough of him and his amusing accent.'

‘Yes, he was the typical Englishman in Montmartre, goggling at everything and everyone,' Georges drawled.

I glared at him before turning back to Toulouse-Lautrec. ‘William is a dear friend of mine, and he speaks well of you, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec. In fact, he gave me one your drawings and I have it still. I thought it was powerful – simple, yet so expressive.'

He gave a small bow. ‘
Merci bien.
Praise from a fellow artist is rare but all the more welcome when it comes.' He kissed my hand. ‘I insist you call me Henri and I shall call you Jessie – such exotic names you English ladies have!'

In those days, before the drink had really taken hold of him, Henri was gregarious and warm, with the rare knack of instantly putting people at their ease. I was to discover that when he was among artist friends at his studio parties, rather than hiding his strange appearance, he would draw more attention to his oddity by dressing in outlandish costumes, a habit he'd learned from his eccentric father. It worked as a distraction and made it less awkward for everyone. I was charmed by him and he seemed to take to our little group immediately. And when Georges introduced Rosa, Henri's eyes lit up. That evening, she looked as if she'd stepped off a tennis court, in cream flannels and a panama hat. She was also smoking a clay pipe.

‘You must be Madame Bonheur,' he said. ‘I had heard about you and your unmistakable dress sense, but the reports don't do you justice.
Enchanté.
' He made a show of shaking her hand as if she were another man. ‘You must allow me to give you the name of my tailor – he's a genius when it comes to dressing the, ah, more unorthodox figure.' He spread the sleeves of his kimono and smiled warmly. We laughed but Rosa was not to be won over so easily.

She took the pipe out of her mouth and pointed it at him. ‘I keep hearing your name, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Georges here raves about you, but what does he know? More significantly, my old friend Cormont tells me you have potential.'

‘You know my former
maître
?' Henri said.

‘Young man, I know everyone. Now, show me your pictures and I can decide for myself what all the fuss is about.'

‘With pleasure.' He called across the attic room: ‘
La belle
Suzanne! These are my delightful new friends, Jessie and Camille, and of course you know the handsome Georges. Will you look after them while I show Madame Bonheur around?'

A beautiful woman lying on a chaise longue waved at us and returned to her conversation with two young men, who sat at her feet as if in adoration of The Sphinx.

‘That's Suzanne Valadon,' Georges said in an undertone to Camille and me once we were alone. ‘She's a model, but also an artist. She sat for all the great artists and they say she's been to bed with most of them. Renoir is completely smitten, apparently. He makes love to her and in return she insists on painting lessons.'

I looked more closely and with a jolt recognised the girl in the red bonnet from Renoir's
Dance at Bougival.

‘A model who paints?' Camille said with a sneer. ‘She doesn't look as if she has a single intelligent thought in that pretty head.'

Georges and Camille sniggered and it made me furious. They were as bad as the
practiciens
with their outdated ideas. This was 1884, after all.

‘Just because a woman is a model, it doesn't follow that she's a fool or a slut,' I said. ‘Anyway, I'm sure most of the gossip about models comes from male artists bragging about imaginary conquests.'

Georges only laughed harder. ‘Oh, Jessie, I don't know what's more charming, your naivety or your faith in the virtue of your fellow women, which is admirable, but sadly misplaced. You see, Suzanne Valadon may only be nineteen but she already has an illegitimate brat. Everyone in Paris knows the story.'

‘Well we don't. Tell it to us at once!' Camille said.

I crossed my arms and glared at Georges, but I couldn't fool him; he knew I was intrigued.

He beckoned us closer and lowered his voice. ‘Well, you must first know that little Maurice was born nine months after La Valadon had been sitting for Renoir. She goes to the great man with the baby in her arms and he takes one look at it and says: “He can't be mine, the colour is terrible.” Next she goes to Degas, who says: “He can't be mine, the form is terrible.” In despair, she tells the Spanish artist Miguel Utrillo about her troubles and he says the baby can have his name. “I would be glad to put my name to the work of either Renoir or Degas.”'

Camille and Georges roared and clung onto each other. I tried not to smile but their laughter was infectious. I punched Camille on the shoulder.

‘You're supposed to be on the side of women artists,' I said.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘I know, but it's so funny. Georges, you are a scandal and a terrible gossip, which is why we love you so.'

Georges put his arms around us. ‘It's a good story, and I don't feel bad telling it to you because I heard it from Suzanne herself. Come on, I'll introduce you to her, she's great fun.'

Up close, Suzanne Valadon's skin was luminous, like porcelain held up to the light. Her eyes were sleepy, as if she had just made love, and her lashes looked as if they had been dusted in charcoal. With her strong jaw and dark eyebrows, she had the kind of almost masculine beauty that awes women as much as men. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

She shooed the young adorers away and beckoned us to sit down. ‘They were trying to get me to pose for them, but I'm too busy with Henri. He's booked me up for weeks, and I'm learning so much from him.'

‘You're an artist as well as a model?' I asked. I desperately wanted to be open-minded but I confess I was shocked that she posed naked. In those days it wasn't acceptable for a woman artist to take off her clothes and pose, not if she wanted to be taken seriously. But somehow, like Rosa, Suzanne got away with her eccentricities through the force of her personality. She was both bold and guileless, and had the devastating confidence of the truly beautiful. And she was always treated with respect, despite her reputation for sleeping around.

Henri came over with Rosa. ‘I love making new friends and now we must celebrate,' he said, waving a bottle and a clutch of glasses at us. ‘I've developed a taste for American cocktails and you must try my own invention,
le Tremblement de Terre
. And I promise you it will live up to its name, in your language, Jessie, the earthquake.' The English word rolled luxuriously from his mouth like a train from a tunnel. He began pouring from different bottles. ‘Four parts absinthe, two parts red wine and the merest hint of cognac for flavour.' He stirred the murky liquid in our glasses and handed them out to us. He drank his down as if it were water. ‘Simple but delicious!'

‘Simple but lethal,' Georges said, tipping the contents of my glass into his own. ‘I think Jessie and Camille will stick to wine.'

But Camille was too quick for him and took a gulp. She went pale and then green. I thought she was going to be sick, but she recovered.

She gritted her teeth and swallowed. ‘You should sell this recipe to
L'École d'Anatomie
. It would be excellent for preserving the cadavers. Why don't you…'

Suzanne stretched languidly and placed a soft, white hand on my arm, like a cat putting out its paw for attention, and spoke across Camille as if she were not there. ‘I believe Jessie was asking if I was an artist. Yes, I am, although one that is still learning. Luckily, I have the best tutors in the world: Renoir, Degas, Puvis de Chavannes and, of course, Henri, who is the rising star. I sit for them and pay close attention while they work, and so they teach me everything they know.'

Camille scowled at Suzanne who ignored her and gave Georges a slow smile, leaning forward so her breasts nearly spilled out of her low-cut bodice.

‘I'm sure you have much to teach them too,' he said, practically salivating. If he were a dog he'd have rolled onto his back for his belly to be scratched. I wanted to kick him in the shins. Suzanne smiled at him like an indulgent mother and he gazed at her adoringly. It was my turn to scowl. Camille snorted; she had clearly taken against Suzanne and didn't bother to hide her contempt.

Suzanne turned her head slightly at the sound and looked coolly at Camille, as if weighing up an enemy. ‘You're Camille Claudel, aren't you?'

‘What of it?'

‘I've heard about you. I understand you too are the pupil of a great artist.'

‘Rodin is my tutor, yes.'

Suzanne winked at Camille. ‘Then we are the same, you and I.'

Camille coloured and opened her mouth to speak, but Rosa got in first. She made a space for herself on the chaise longue next to Suzanne, who reluctantly moved over. ‘Don't waste your time on Duchamp, he's only a beginner,' Rosa said. ‘When are you going to pose for me? Or am I to be the only artist in Paris not to paint La Valadon?'

Suzanne flicked her cool gaze back to Rosa. ‘
Ah, non
,
chèrie,
you paint animals – cows and horses and hunting dogs – not beautiful women. But I have an idea, why don't you paint my cats? They are adorable!'

Suzanne uncoiled herself from the chaise longue and tossed back one of Henri's lethal cocktails in one go. She became animated and began to regale us with preposterous tales about a goat she kept in her studio to eat up her bad drawings, and about her cats, which she fed caviar, but only on Fridays, because they were good Catholic cats. I wasn't sure if I believed her, but her stories made me laugh so much I forgave her outrageous flirting with Georges. We were all soon in fits except for Camille, who sulked while the rest of us egged on Suzanne. La Valadon turned out to be excellent company, witty and self-deprecating, but when we plied her with questions about Renoir and Degas, she batted them away.

‘Boring! Who wants to talk about technique? Look at their paintings. All you need to know is there on the canvas. Now, have you ever met a rabbit with a taste for Chinese food and wine? No? Well, I have…'

Camille cut across her rudely. ‘Henri, where did you get your costume?'

‘Oh, do you like it? Isn't it just adorable – so original?' He stood up and did a little twirl. ‘At one of those Japanese importers. They even had the proper wooden
zori
shoes and white silk
tabi
socks.'