Paris Kiss (17 page)

To lighten the mood, Salis brought on the dancers, who cartwheeled and kicked their way through a stirring
galop infernal
, the women flashing their frothy petticoats and bloomers, spinning their legs in the
ronde de jambe
, then performing backflips and jump splits. They were dancing
le chahut
, the original, wilder version of the cancan that has now become little more than a titillating show for tourists. One of the dancers jumped down off the small stage and pulled a man in evening dress into the troupe. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips and suddenly kicked her leg high and knocked off his top hat. When the audience whooped their appreciation, she flashed a cheeky smile, turned round, bent over, and threw her skirts over her back to thunderous applause.

After the dancers had finished, a strange creature skipped onto the stage. The gas footlights distorted her white face and painted cheeks into a grotesque parody of an innocent child. She wore a mobcap and cotton nightdress and held a black kitten with a blue bow tied around its neck. She lisped her way through a nursery rhyme full of filthy double entendres that made people shriek with laughter.

Georges slipped into the chair next to me. ‘That's May Belfort, the star turn. Henri has quite taken her under his wing. He's been asking his friends if any of them has a tomcat to mate with her
petite chatte.
Suzanne wants to send her one of her cats, says it will be a proper wedding ceremony and we are all invited. Can you imagine?' He laughed softly and kissed me in the dark. I desperately wanted to push him away, and at the same time for him never to stop, just like that night. Things had moved too quickly, and now I didn't know how to undo them. I shouldn't have gone to his
atelier
. He would never let me forget what had happened between us. I had been a fool, worse than a fool.

In
Le Chat Noir
, I studied Georges' profile as he laughed at the singer's saucy ditty about Mary and her not-so-little lamb. He smiled warmly at me and took my hand, as if everything were settled between us. Somehow I had to tell him everything had changed, and that I still loved William.

I pressed his hand. ‘Georges, I need to speak to you.'

He looked at me curiously, just as the café doors burst open
.
A whistle rang out and voices shouted: ‘
Attention tout le monde! Police!
'

One of the floozies at the next table shrieked: ‘
Les flics!
' Tables and chairs were knocked over as people scrambled towards the door. There was a sound of breaking glass and women's screams. May Belfort, now down to a pair of bloomers, picked up her kitten and hugged it to her pink-tipped breasts before jumping off the stage into the panicked crowd. As she ran past me I heard her shout: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's the fecking peelers!'

Across the room I saw Suzanne sliding down the banisters egged on by Henri, who was wielding a riding crop and galloping down the stairs clinging to the back of a dancer, his face scarlet. Suzanne landed in a flurry of petticoats at the
gendarmes
' feet, her legs in the air. She wasn't wearing any underwear.

Georges pulled me to my feet. ‘It's a raid.'

‘Why?' I shouted over the uproar.

‘There are laws about decency. The prostitution they don't care about, but the shows are too public.' He pulled Camille to her feet and called to Rosa. ‘Get the girls out of here! Go over the stage, that way. There's a back door. I'll deal with the
gendarmes
. I know the chief of police.
Vite! Va t'en!
'

Rosa led us into a back alley and out into the thronged main street away from the café, where she whistled through her fingers for a cab. It was a crisp clear night and I shivered. We had left our capes in the rush to get out, but Camille didn't seem to feel the cold. She spread her arms wide and spun round in a circle, laughing up at the velvet-black sky embroidered with stars and a full moon.

‘What a birthday! What a life, eh Jessie?'

Chapter 29

Villeneuve

Christmas Eve, 1884

‘Well, are you going to open it?' Camille picked up a brown parcel tied with string, from which dangled a white card. It said in Georges' writing:
I'll never forget that night with you in my studio.
Tout mon amour du tout mon coeur. Mille bisous. Je t'aime.

‘All his love from all his heart, eh? And not one but a thousand kisses. And an
I love you
. Such ardour! Such persistence!' Camille said. ‘You have to admire him for it.' She handed me the parcel. ‘Quick, quick! Open it before I die from curiosity.'

We were dressing for dinner in Camille's bedroom at her family's country home in Champagne, in the little village of Villeneuve-sur-Fère. I put the parcel down and fiddled with the catch on my pearls to buy myself some time. I hadn't seen him since the night of the raid. I had been too cowardly to let him know that things had changed. When we'd got home from
Le Chat Noir
, I had rushed upstairs and been relieved to find the angry letter I'd written to William still on my dressing table where I'd left it. I tore it into pieces and dashed off another to him, full of declarations of love, saying I'd missed him and I was sorry for not writing to him for so long.
Sorry, sorry, sorry
,
I'd written and covered the letter in kisses before sealing it and putting it in the hall to be posted.

But I had not put a stop to Georges' feelings for me; perhaps I didn't want to.

I was still fiddling with my pearls while I thought it all through, and finally Camille tutted with impatience and came over. She lifted my hair away from my neck. ‘Here, let me do that for you. There you go, all done. Now, the parcel – no more excuses!'

I sat on the bed with the package in my lap, smoothing the brown paper, half afraid of what I would find inside.

Camille groaned. ‘Jessie,
tu m'enmerdes!
If you don't open it, I shall
.
'

I unstuck the paper. Inside was a framed sketch in ochre chalk of a young woman. Her eyes were bold, her rosebud lips full of promise. I caught my breath. Georges must have drawn it from memory, but it was full of tender details, from the charcoal flick of mischief at the corners of the mouth and eyes to the contours of the face delicately smudged by his fingers.

Camille took the picture off me and studied it. ‘He's not a bad draughtsman. He's caught your expression well.'

I tried to cover how thrilled I was by looking at it critically. ‘It doesn't really look like me – my cheeks are not so full and he's flattered my nose somewhat.'

‘Why always so exact, Jessie? It's a love poem from an artist, it's how he sees you – and what he wants from you.'

Camille handed it back to me. There was no signature, but I knew Georges' hand. It was such a simple gift, which cost nothing more than the artist's skill and thought, but I had never been given anything so romantic.

Camille leaned in for a closer look. ‘Well, Georges has surprised me, I must admit. I've never seen him so serious about anyone before. Perhaps I was wrong to warn you off and he really is ready to change his ways.'

I closed my eyes and tried to think. It had been so clear-cut only days earlier: William had betrayed me and I had nearly given into Georges, but pulled back because he was a womaniser who could not be trusted. Now everything had changed again and I was more confused than ever.

There was a knock at the door and Louise's sharp little face appeared. ‘Come on you two, what's keeping you? It's time to gather around the
sapin de noël
to open presents.' She made a face at her sister. ‘Is that what you're wearing? Maman will have a fit.'

Camille stood up and looked down at her plain blue serge dress with its white cuffs and collar. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘It's not even clean – there's a stain on the bodice and the cuffs are grubby.'

Camille shrugged, but dabbed at the mark with a linen towel she'd dipped into the washing jug.

Louise said: ‘For goodness sake. You're making it worse. Come into my room and I'll lend you something to wear.' When Camille refused she began to whine. ‘Don't ruin Christmas again. Just this once, can't you try to please Maman? And Papa likes it when you dress up.'

‘
D'accord,
calme-toi
,' Camille said. ‘But only if I can borrow your grey dress with the mother-of-pearl buttons; everything else you have is too
froufrou
for me. Jessie, I'll see you downstairs. I'd better go with the little ninny before she starts crying.'

When the sisters had left and I could hear them squabbling in the corridor, I turned over the portrait, looking for a message. At the bottom were two words:
Choose me
. I pressed the words to my lips and put the sketch and Georges' card in my jewellery box, my feelings once more in turmoil. I hadn't had the chance – or the courage – to speak to Georges. I had told Camille about William, that he hadn't been with those girls in the café, but there was something else I hadn't told her about. There was another package, from England. Inside was a velvet box with an emerald pendant. The gem cast a green glow, like absinthe in candlelight. The note said:
Remember me
.

I took out the necklace and tried it on against my neck, noticing how the emerald made my hair blaze like copper. Then I thought of Georges leaning against the doorframe at Rodin's studio, his sleeves rolled up, laughing at something I'd said, and I put the emerald necklace back in its case and shut the lid of my jewellery box.

Downstairs, Louise was still whining. ‘Oh Jessie, Camille is
affreuse
. She says I look fat in my new evening dress, what do you think?' She pouted and placed her hands around her tiny waist – the bodice was fashionably low, revealing all of her shoulders and a good deal of her breasts.

Camille snorted. ‘She looks like a barmaid. Watch out, kitten, next time you see Monsieur Renoir he'll put you in one of his paintings for the whole of Paris to goggle at.'

Camille's snobbish barb rankled, but I bit my tongue. After all, I had not told her that my mother had once been a barmaid.

Louise stuck out her tongue and pinched Camille on the tender part of her arm.

‘Ouch! You little…' Camille lunged at her sister, her hands like claws.

Louise screamed and ducked. ‘Maman! Maman! Camille tried to scratch me.' Madame Claudel rushed into the room and Louise ran to her and showed her a faint red mark on her face.

Madame Claudel snapped at Camille: ‘Apologise to your sister at once. Any more of this behaviour and you'll spend Christmas Eve in your room and miss
Le Réveillon
.'

Camille looked mutinous but muttered an apology; we had fasted all day and she didn't want to miss the feast after Midnight Mass. Earlier we had peeked into the kitchen to see Marie, the cook, preparing goose and
boudin blanc
. A large chocolate and chestnut Yule log lay enticingly on a marble pastry table and Marie had chased us when she caught Camille breaking off a piece.

On the way to the village church, the Claudels were on their usual form: noisy, argumentative, amusing, exasperating. The night was cold, and I was glad of my furs as I walked arm-in-arm with Camille. It was pitch black, the stars hidden by snow clouds, our path picked out by the swaying yellow beam from Paul's lantern.

The church was ablaze with candles and the air heavy with incense. A choir of small boys decked in white and red cotton sang like young angels while families crowded in a side nave to admire an elaborate nativity scene. The village of Villeneuve was laid out in miniature with replicas of the
boulangerie
and the
patisserie
, the tiny square bustling with housewives and stallholders hawking their wares. In the foreground, larger figures of shepherds and the Magi knelt in adoration before an empty manger. I sat through the Mass, soothed by the priest's chanting and the congregation's murmured responses. I prayed for guidance, and for the strength to resist temptation and do the right thing. After he carried out the final blessing, the priest brought out the Christ Child, crafted exactingly down to the creases in its plump wrists, and cradled the baby in his hands while the villagers lined up to kiss its feet. I stood next to Camille. When it was her turn, she pursed her lips together and whispered something to the little plaster baby.

Chapter 30

Villeneuve

Christmas Day, 1884

I woke at first light with a sense of foreboding. I still had a headache from the night before. The Claudels had been in high spirits, chatting and teasing each other. By the time we'd eaten our way through the rich midnight feast, I'd had enough. It's easy to feel lonely with another family at Christmas. I found the Claudels' constant bickering enervating and missed the quiet affection of my own parents. I was relieved when Madame Claudel broke the party up at three and I could slip away to bed.

I stretched under the linen sheets; they were damp with cold. It was too early for the maid to have built a fire and the air was icy. I sat up in bed, the blanket still under my chin, and saw that Camille was standing at the window in her nightdress and bare feet.

‘I love it here,' she said without turning round from the bleak landscape that stretched before her. ‘When Paul and I were children we spent every day out there.' She came to sit on my bed. There were dark shadows under her eyes and she looked drawn in the grey light. ‘I want to show you something, out on the moors. Will you come with me? I'm fed up being stuck here with my family. I can't breathe.'

I knew I wouldn't go back to sleep. Perhaps a walk would clear my head. I had spent a restless night and was tired of going round in circles about Georges and William. I threw back the covers and got dressed as quickly as possible.

The world was blurred by fog and I shivered despite wearing my warmest walking dress, a thick woollen coat and sturdy boots. Camille was wearing her stained blue dress again and a man's tweed overcoat.

‘Papa's old gardening coat – as he never gardens he won't miss it,' she said. Dwarfed by the shabby coat, her small face upturned and vulnerable in the morning light, she looked like a child.

The ground was uneven and hard with frost and I noticed Camille was finding it difficult. She paused and winced, her hand on her hip.

I caught at her arm. ‘Are you all right? We can go back, if you like.'

She shook her head. ‘It's nothing. I only get pain sometimes, in my hip. I was born with one leg shorter than the other.'

It was the first time she'd talked about her limp and I'd been careful not to mention it. I knew Camille hated showing any weakness.

I nodded. ‘Can you manage?' I put my hand under her arm, but she pulled away.

‘Of course I can manage. Didn't I run wild here all my days as a child?' She walked on. ‘Come on, it's not far now.'

After a while, we reached a bleak terrain scattered with massive boulders, which the elements had worn into strange shapes. The fog had grown thicker and wisps of it were gathered around the base of the rocks.

Camille stopped and caught her breath. ‘
La Hottée du Diable.
'

‘Is this what you wanted to show me?'

She nodded, her mouth pinched white with fatigue.

I sat down on a smooth boulder and she joined me with a small sigh.

‘Why is it called the Devil's Basket?' I said.

‘There is a legend that the Devil promised to build a convent in one night in return for someone's soul – the builder's I think. But a rooster woke early and started crowing, so Satan ran off, dropping these stones from his basket.' She kicked at a small stone with the pointed toe of her thin Paris boots. She was vain about her small feet and hadn't changed into walking shoes.

I pulled my coat tighter around me. Camille's coat swung free, unbuttoned, but she didn't seem to notice the cold. She started climbing one of the rocks that was as big as an elephant. Halfway up, she beckoned to me. ‘This one has a cave inside it. Paul and I used to climb into it when Maman was in one of her moods. Come and see.'

I felt my way up the rock after her, fumbling for foot and hand holds. Camille sat at the top, her legs dangling into a black hole. Suddenly, she disappeared from sight.

I scrabbled up to the top and called into the darkness: ‘Camille! Are you hurt?'

She laughed. ‘It's quite safe, Jessie. Just slip down. It's like being on a helter skelter.'

Her pale face glimmered in the darkness below and I could see her grinning. ‘Are you frightened?' she called.

I could never resist a challenge; I hitched up my skirts and followed her through the rushing blackness. I landed on a springy bed of dried brush, my skirts tangled about my waist.

I pulled twigs from my hair and blew out my cheeks. ‘Some helter skelter!' We laughed and my sombre mood lifted. It was cosy in the cave. We were sheltered from the wind that raced around outside, moaning as it passed over the cave entrance.

Camille pulled a book of matches from her pocket. ‘See here and here,' she said and pointed at the scratches in the wall. ‘I drew sketches and Paul wrote verses. It was our secret place.' The match went out and we were in darkness again. ‘Touch the stone, Jessie,' Camille whispered. ‘Touch it like Rodin showed us how to touch sculptures.'

I closed my eyes and felt the bumps and crevices of the cool rock. ‘Do you feel it?' she said in the blackness.

Through my fingertips I felt an energy that seemed to hum from within. ‘Yes, I do.'

Her voice, dreamy and low, seemed disembodied in the darkness. ‘It's here that I decided to work in stone. I'd already experimented with the red clay that's everywhere in Villeneuve. The artisans make it into roof tiles and
Grandpère
had built a kiln for the pantiles. I used to make tiny people and animals and he showed me how to fire them. But when I touched this rock, the devil's rock, I felt a force go into me. I knew it was my destiny to release the power trapped in stone.'

Camille took my hands and pressed my fingers to her mouth, and I wanted to take off my gloves, feel the tip of her tongue. I imagined it rough, like a cat's. She shifted closer and spoke into my ear, as if frightened of being overheard, even in the heart of a rock.

‘It's only to you that I've told this. Even Rodin would think me
fou
.'

‘You're not mad.' I put my arms around her and she leaned her head on my shoulder. I realised how thin she had become. ‘You're freezing,' I said. ‘We should go home.'

‘No, let's stay like this for a while. You make me warm.'

I opened my coat and fastened it around us both. We sat in silence in the dark for a while, the heat from each other's bodies spreading through us.

‘What about you?' Camille said. ‘How did you know you wanted to be a sculptor?'

‘I remember the first time I played with clay,' I said. ‘I was on my haunches out on the mud flats in East Anglia. I squeezed the mud and watched the ribbons curl between my fingers, and realised I could make shapes, that my two hands could change something as simple as mud into anything I wanted.'

Camille nodded against my shoulder. ‘I have a similar memory from playing in the garden at Villeneuve as a child. But it was nothing to how I felt when I first took a chisel to a piece of marble, how brittle it was, how you can snap a thin piece in two like a
langue du chat
, how you can smooth it and rub it and smooth it until it becomes polished and full of light.' She was absentmindedly stroking my waist under my coat as she spoke and I held my breath until she seemed to realise what she was doing and stopped. She sat up. ‘I can feel the cold in my bones now, can't you?'

‘Yes, we should get back.'

Camille showed me the way to climb back to the top, up a kind of natural staircase.

‘You go first. My hip is a little painful. I'll take it more slowly.'

When I poked my head out of the rock, I could see the fog had descended and all I could make out beyond my own hand was a frightening blank. I turned to look down the hole and saw Camille halfway up. Her fingers were reaching for the final handhold when a rock came away in her hand and she fell back, landing with a sickening thud. She cried out in pain.

‘Camille! Are you hurt?'

I heard a sob.

‘I can't move. I think I've twisted my ankle.'

‘Don't move. I'll go for help,' I called.

I scrambled down the curved back of the rock and started to walk in the direction we'd come, but the mist was too thick and I realised I'd be lost on the moor if I went any further. I retraced my steps, climbed back up and called down. ‘The fog is too thick. We'll have to wait it out.' I began to panic. Nobody knew where we were. We would be stuck here for hours and Camille would catch pneumonia. I wanted to cry but instead took a breath. What did William always say? For every problem there's a solution. I forced myself to calm down and think. I went back to the rock and called down to her.

‘Camille, do you still have those matches?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hold on, I'll come back down in a bit.'

I began to gather dried bracken and stuff it into my jacket. There were only a few stunted trees in that benighted place, bent over like hags by the relentless winds, but I managed to find some sticks. I broke them over my knee and stuffed them into my pockets and down the front of my coat. I had to make several trips, clambering up the rock to leave the sticks and bracken on the edge of the cave mouth before shimmying back to the ground to look for more fuel. My nails were broken and my fingers torn and bloody by the time I made the last exhausted climb to the top. I called down to Camille to shield her eyes and pushed everything into the cave before sliding back down, the heels of my boots acting as brakes so I wouldn't crash into her.

It was freezing in the cave. She was trembling violently and I rubbed her icy hands and blew on them. I built a fire, stacking kindling onto the larger sticks and covering it all in bracken.

Camille looked on, teeth chattering. ‘Where did you learn to do that?'

‘From the housemaid back home in Peterborough. She was a lot quicker, though.'

I put my arms around her and we watched the flames poke out little blue tongues. The bracken began to glow orange and the sticks crackled. The air grew smoky but at least we were warm.

Camille leaned her head against my shoulder again. Her hair smelled of bonfires. ‘I wish we had some cognac,' she said. ‘Where's Henri when you need him?'

I laughed, relieved. If she could joke she had a chance of surviving until we were found – if we were found. Nobody knew we had gone out and it might be hours before anyone noticed we were missing. Meanwhile it was the middle of winter and the fog showed no sign of lifting; the fire wouldn't last long and I'd have to start the search for fuel all over again. I closed my eyes with fatigue and felt sleep taking hold of me. I jerked awake, terrified. If I was going to move I'd have to do it now, before I fell asleep. But Camille was warm against me and I didn't want to go out into the cold.

Her voice was sleepier now. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘About what?'

She yawned. ‘About Georges, what else?'

‘I don't know.' I rubbed my eyes, the smoke was making them water. I cleared my dry throat. ‘But I'll have to make a decision soon. William sent me a Christmas present, an emerald pendant that belonged to his grandmamma. It's part of a set. There's a ring that goes with it – an engagement ring.'

She went still. ‘He'll ask you then, when you go back to England for the summer.'

I nodded.

A small sigh, then her voice again, dreamier this time. ‘If you had any sense you would marry him, Jessie. That's what Maman would say.'

‘And Georges, what about him? Should I just forget him?'

‘I told you before, love always gets in the way. It's a damned nuisance. If you marry William, he'll give you children, your own home. That's what Rodin will give me, if I'm patient, once he gets rid of that hag.'

I put another branch on the fire and watched the sparks twirl up to the natural chimney. Either Rodin had changed his mind about children, or he had told Camille what she wanted to hear. I was careful to keep my voice even. ‘Is that what you want – Rodin's children? Is that what he wants?'

She shrugged. ‘Of course. Can you imagine what a child we would have?' She laughed and nudged me. ‘But don't change the subject. We were talking about how you should stay with William. Georges, now, he's like a stick of dynamite. Maybe he has changed, but you should still be careful.'

I shifted and felt the bracken scratch the back of my legs. ‘I don't know what to think any more. What would you do if you were in my place, Camille?' Her breathing was growing even and I shook her shoulder. ‘Camille?'

She roused herself enough to answer. ‘Me? What I always do: exactly what I want.' She yawned again. ‘But in the meantime, make sure William doesn't find out about Georges.'

When she was asleep, I put some bracken behind her head. We'd used up the last of the fuel and I knew what had to be done. I sighed and climbed up and out of the cave and began to gather fallen branches for the fire. By the fifth trip, the fog was so thick I'd had to leave a trail of stones back to the devil's rock so I wouldn't get lost as I wandered further and further away to find wood and bracken. I had lost track of time. It was beginning to get dark and hours must have passed since we left the house. My fingers lost all sensation and I kept dropping the sticks. I was talking to myself, muttering
just one more, just one more
when I saw the light from a lantern swinging through the mist.

‘They're over here!' A shape emerged from the fog, the outline blurred like a ghost. It materialised into a familiar figure. William. It must be a fever dream. But he was so real. I shook my head and a ragged wall of fog engulfed him. Someone called my name. I tried to answer but my voice was hoarse from the wood smoke and no sound came out. I jumped up and down and waved. After a few agonising moments, the figure came out of the fog again and he shouted. I would know that voice anywhere. William broke into a run and I stumbled towards him with the last of my strength. He put his arms around me and my knees gave way.