Paris Kiss (20 page)

Chapter 34

Paris

October 1885

But Georges had not stemmed the gossip. While we revelled in our triumph, word was spreading through Paris. Others had seen Rodin's sculpture and speculated about the identity of the model and soon Camille Claudel's name was on everyone's lips. As summer cooled into autumn, while we worked on, wrapped in the cocoon of Rodin's studio, tiny streams of rumours fed into each other until they became a great river that lapped the walls of the
atelier
. By the following spring, even Rose Beuret couldn't ignore the currents of speculation and spite.

We usually had the
atelier
to ourselves in the evenings and I was surprised when Rose marched into the courtyard. I was waiting for Camille and had become immersed in the new Thomas Hardy,
The Mayor of Casterbridge
. I was at the part where the drunken Henchard was selling his wife and baby daughter at auction so I didn't notice Rose until she was at the inner door to the studio. I sprang up from the bench and the book tumbled down my skirts and onto the flagstones.

‘Madame Rodin, please wait.'

Rose ignored me and went inside. I hurried after her, but she was too quick for me. She seemed to know Rodin and Camille's secret meeting place and headed straight to a door hidden by discarded plaster casts. They had forgotten to lock it. The fools – they had grown careless, assuming that everyone would turn a blind eye to the affair between the great man and his gifted pupil. I stood there, powerless, and watched it all happen.

Camille, her clothes dishevelled and her hair loose, ran out of the small backroom into my arms where she hid her face and sobbed. Three scratches beaded with blood marked her cheek. The door banged shut and Rose Beuret's shrieks rang around the empty studio. Camille and I crouched behind
The Gates of Hell
, listening to the rumble of Rodin's voice as he tried to calm Rose's fury. Suddenly it went silent. The air felt heavy, as if we were in a thunderstorm, and I half expected my ears to pop. Then a terrible wailing started up, like the lowing of a wounded farm beast. It was the kind of grief I've only heard since from mothers who lost their sons in the Great War. But at the time I'd never heard anything so desolate. It was the sound of someone's heart breaking.

I plucked at Camille's sleeve. ‘Let's go.'

She shook me off. ‘No, no, Rodin may need me.'

I spun her round and made her look at me. ‘We have to go, Camille. Now.'

There was the cracking sound of a slap. Our heads snapped round and we looked at the door, eyes wide. Camille's fingers found her mouth and she nodded. We ran from the
atelier
like thieves fleeing a crime.

I
n the sanctuary of our own studio in Notre-Dame-des-Champs we smoked and waited for Rodin. Camille couldn't sit still and paced up and down, her limp more pronounced now since her fall on the moor.

‘Where is he? He should come. He must come.' She pushed her fringe out of her face. Her eyes were wild. ‘This is good that she knows. It means there's no more need for secrecy. He'll leave her and we can be together. I'm glad it happened.'

‘Camille, please sit down. You'll tire yourself out.'

‘Is there any brandy?'

I poured out the last of the bottle and went to add water.

‘No water.'

She tipped the cup back and drank greedily. I'd never seen her so agitated. I wanted to make it all go away, but there was nothing I could do.

We heard footsteps on the stairs and Camille ran lightly to the curtain to pull it back, expecting Rodin. She stopped when she saw Rose. She was holding a pistol.

‘
Putain!
' Rose shrieked.

Camille seemed transfixed by the gun's black mouth. Time seemed to stop, like in a bad dream, and I could not move or utter a word. I watched in horror as Rose squeezed the trigger. Her hand jerked and there was a deafening explosion. The room filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. In the split second of silence that followed I watched bands of blue smoke hanging in the air. Camille sank to her knees and the trance was broken. I ran to her and caught her bowed head in my hands. No blood. Her skin was warm. I tried to remember what I'd learned in anatomy and searched for the carotid artery. It pulsed in her neck. Thank God, thank God. She moaned and opened her eyes.

I patted her clothes, searching for blood: nothing. Rose Beuret must have missed.

‘Camille, can you hear me? Does it hurt anywhere? Do you need a doctor?'

She shook her head and began to sob. I pulled her head to my chest and rocked her. There was a clunk as the gun dropped to the floor. I whipped my head around and glared at Rose.

‘Are you mad? You could have killed her.'

‘I wish she were dead. I wish I were dead.' Rose put her face in her hands and began to weep.

There were shouts outside, the scuffle of heavy boots on the stairs and Rodin stood at the doorway, taking in the scene: Camille and I kneeling together on the floor, Rose standing over us, the gun at her feet.

Rodin stepped towards Rose, his hands raised. She shrank from him but he pulled her into an embrace. He stroked her hair, which swung wild and loose, heavy skeins of silver and bronze.

‘
Allons, allons,
my little bird. You mustn't excite yourself; your heart is not strong. Auguste is here. Don't worry, I'll take you home.' Rose nodded and laid her head on his chest, her breath shuddering like a child after a tantrum. Rodin spoke to me over his shoulder. ‘Will you look after Camille?' I nodded, unable to believe what had happened.

When they had left, Camille stared at the curtain as it swung back into place. As we sat there on the dusty floorboards, I began to tremble violently. Nausea rose in my throat and I vomited, splattering our skirts. Camille hugged herself and began rocking violently, her mouth a twisted maw of grief, her face flushed and streaked with tears. I staggered to my feet, kicking the gun into a corner, unwilling to touch it. I shook her by the shoulders until her eyes focused on me.

‘What will you do now?' I said.

She took a gasping breath, like a drowning man coming up for air. ‘Nothing. It's over. I never want that bastard to touch me again. I'll never forgive him for this. Never.'

She began to weep again and there was nothing I could do to console her.

Camille would not get out of bed the next morning, or the next. She refused to eat, turning her face to the wall when her mother came in with consommés and jellies. I sat by her side, pressing cold cloths to her forehead.

Madame Claudel picked up a plate of untouched food and shook her head. ‘She's exhausted. I told her father that sculpture was too hard for a woman.'

Camille, who would normally have sharpened her tongue on her mother's flinty words, merely closed her eyes. Tears leaked into her hairline unchecked.

After a week of this, I went to Rodin's studio.

In the stone-cutting yard, Rodolphe looked up from his hammering and smirked. ‘Here comes one of them, anyway. Eh, Mademoiselle Tight-Arse, where's your uppity friend? Too frightened to show her face, I'll bet. I hear Madame Rodin's banned her from the studio. Someone must have been telling tales. Now, I wonder who would do such a thing.' He grinned at his cronies, who fell about laughing.

So that's how Rose Beuret had found out – Rodolphe had tipped her off, the filthy ape. I ignored him and started to throw tools into a carpetbag, all the while keeping an eye out for Rodin. Sure enough, after a few minutes he touched my shoulder.

‘Oh, it's you.' I glanced at him and went back to sorting out the tools.

‘
Oui, c'est moi. Votre maître
.' He took the heavy bag from my hands and put it gently on the floor. ‘How is Camille?'

I wiped off my hands and faced him. ‘How do you think she is? She's upset, of course.' I had a hundred things I had planned to say to him, but it was difficult to be angry with him. I was still in awe of Rodin, but I had to try for Camille's sake.

‘
Maître
, I don't know what to say to you.'

He smiled and handed me a piece of paper. ‘Say you will take this to
notre féroce amie
.' He closed his large hand over mine and held it tight. ‘Please, Jessie,
je t'en supplie
. I must see her.'

‘She doesn't want to see you, not after what happened.'

He shook his head sadly. ‘Ah,
le pauvre Rose
.'

I wrenched my hand free, leaving the letter in his. ‘Poor Rose? She tried to kill Camille.'

‘Never would she have harmed her. That old pistol doesn't even work properly – it was her father's. Do you still have it?'

I reached into the carpetbag and took out the gun wrapped in an oily rag. He sighed and pocketed it.

‘You were never in any danger, I assure you. Rose's eyesight is bad after years of needlework. It was merely a nervous crisis. She…she's had a hard life. Our son, he's not quite…never mind.' He drew a deep breath. ‘
Enfin
, I spoke to her and she has promised she will not come near Camille again.' He rubbed his chin. ‘I don't know what got into
ma petite mignone
. She's always been jealous and fiery with it, but this? I didn't think she suspected anything.'

I pointed at Rodolphe, who was whistling over a piece of marble and pretending not to look in our direction. ‘Perhaps there is a simple explanation.'

Rodin shook his head. ‘No, it's not that. Rose never listens to gossip about me.'

I'll bet she doesn't, I thought. Better to stay in the dark when you were with a man like Rodin, who loved women of all shapes, ages and sizes. I considered for a moment.

‘You must have let something slip, then, an inadvertent confession of sorts. Did you talk about Camille to Rose?'

He looked sheepish. ‘Just before this, ah, incident, we were at Georges Petit's gallery for my new exhibition. Rose saw
La Danaïde
. You saw the earlier version of it in the Salon.' He shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other. ‘She wanted to know who the model was.'

‘And you told her?'

He nodded.

La Danaïde
is one of Rodin's most tender sculptures. It's still one my favourites. While some of his uninhibited female nudes could be crude and shocking, this arousing figure seemed carved out of pure love. No wonder Rose had gone mad. The fool – Rodin was so besotted with Camille he couldn't resist bragging about her, even to his wife.

He touched me on the arm. ‘Will you ask Camille to come back?'

‘Why would she, after you left her alone in our studio and went away with Rose?'

His mouth tightened. Rodin was still Rodin and didn't like his authority to be questioned. ‘I did what was necessary under the circumstances. Rose is my duty, my burden.' His expression softened. ‘But I have carried this burden long enough. It is Camille who is in my thoughts every day. Since she's been gone I can't work, I can't think.'

He passed his hands over his reddened eyes and I realised that he was weeping. Rodin and Camille were both in pain without each other, and I was the only one who could help them.

‘Give me the letter,' I said.

His face was eager, like a young man in the grip of first love. ‘You'll do it?'

‘I'll do it.'

It was a decision I would come to regret.

Chapter 35

Peterborough

May 1886

The sun streamed through the morning room bay windows and lay in bright pools on the newspaper spread over the breakfast table. It shone through the marmalade jar, making the orange peel look as if it were suspended in amber.

‘What do the reviews say?' Camille said.

‘Your
Giganti
was well received.' Camille's English was rudimentary so I translated for her. ‘
From a fresh new talent, this striking bust shows a confident hand, although the piece appears rather unfinished
.'

She crumbled a piece of toast. ‘What else does it say?'

‘Nothing much, just some rubbish from a journalist who clearly knows nothing about art.'

‘Read it to me.'

I would want to know too, but I wanted to protect Camille. She was still fragile after the shooting. And over the past few months, Rodin had been merciless, both in his attentions to Camille and his professional demands on both of us. We spent every waking hour in his studio working on
The Burghers
and during our breaks he would take Camille aside to talk over ideas for new sculptures. They were working feverishly on a project she wouldn't tell me about.
It will be Rodin's greatest work and we will make it together. It is to be a representation of our love for each other, for all to see.
Her own work lay neglected and unfinished in our studio and by the time we left for England she seemed drained, sleeping for long periods and picking at her food.

In Paris I had watched Camille's cool marble carapace fracture into tiny lines under the pressure of Rodin's love, seen her strong spirit eroded by his demands as she spent her talent on ideas for Rodin's insatiable creative appetite. England would be an escape for her, a cool sanctuary where her turbulent mind would be calmed under the pewter skies. And, selfishly, I wanted Camille to myself again. But Rodin followed us. Under the pretext of visiting an artist in London, he contrived to meet us at the Royal Academy exhibition, where he had charmed my parents into being invited to Wootton House.

Now Camille tapped the newspaper. ‘Read the rest.'

Reluctantly, I picked up the paper again. ‘…
Unfortunately for Miss Claudel, her rather roughly executed and clumsy oeuvre was displayed next to Miss Lipscomb's accomplished and technically perfect bust of the very same model. It was Miss Claudel who came off worse in this particular competition between the fair ladies.
'

There was a moment of quiet while I held my breath. A blackbird sang its piercing melody in the elm outside.

Camille's voice was dangerously quiet. ‘And your
Day Dreams
?'

‘A mention only.'

‘Translate it for me.'

‘I'm not sure my French is up to it.'

‘What are you talking about? You speak like a native.' When I stayed silent, she snatched the paper from my hand and squinted furiously at the small blurred type. ‘It's no good; I can't make out more than two words.
Jessie, tu m'en merdes
.
Raconte-moi, tout de suite
.'

I quoted from memory. ‘
The subject's exquisite, tender beauty shines through this sensitive work. Miss Lipscomb shows a remarkable emotional expressivity for such a young artist. The tender subject lends itself perfectly to the light touch and feminine sensibilities of a lady artist. This critic has the pleasure of introducing one of the most promising new artists who will no doubt add to the glory of Brittania and her Empire
.' I paused. ‘I told you, awful tosh.'

I watched Camille's face warily, waiting for the inevitable outburst. They had become increasingly frequent. Always tempestuous, since that dreadful shooting she had become more volatile, quicker to anger and prone to bouts of suspicion. Camille knitted her dark eyebrows and I held my breath again. She smoothed out her expression like one would a piece of crumpled paper. When she spoke, her voice was oddly high and bright, like a porcelain bell.

‘In England they are not
au fait
with the modern movements in art, as they are in Paris. After all, the Royal Academy rejected Rodin's
Idylle
for that ridiculous collection of sentimental rubbish we saw, full of imbecile knights and princesses with constipated expressions. And did you see that painting of the little girl and her kitten? I thought I was going to vomit.'

She stood up and opened a window. A breeze lifted her muslin sleeves and I could see the outline of her uncorseted body under the white tea dress. For a moment I hated her for the scorn she'd poured on my work by rubbishing the Academy. She couldn't bear for me to be praised instead of her. Well, it was my turn now. I was about to say something sharp to her, when she turned round. Her head was haloed by the sun and she smiled at me.

‘I'm sorry, Jessie, I should have congratulated you. Your work put the rest of that exhibition to shame.' She came over and embraced me and once again I could breathe more easily. The storm had passed us by, or so I thought.

Rodin arrived that evening in the middle of a summer thunderstorm. I opened the front door to see our
maître
standing in the downpour, a damp beret mashed on his head and his beard dripping with rain.

‘What a climate you endure,' he said, shaking himself out of his coat like a dog and handing it to the new maid, who had just arrived, late and flustered.

‘Sorry, Miss,' she said to me, bobbing a curtsy. ‘I was in the kitchen helping cook. She's been in a bit of a tizzy trying to follow the recipe for French soup Madame found in Mrs Beeton. Onions and beef broth, it's made from. At least it's not frogs or horses. I don't know how foreigners can eat them things.' She shuddered and made a face.

‘Thank you, Liza. I'll show Monsieur Rodin into the parlour. You can go back and help cook. I'm sure dinner will be delicious, as always.'

Rodin came into the hall, rubbing his hands briskly and stood in front of the fireplace. He looked appreciatively around the hall, panelled in kauri pine that shone like honey. ‘How is she?'

I didn't need to ask whom he meant. He might have asked how I was, or made some polite conversation first. But Rodin wasn't one for social chit-chat. I swallowed my irritation.

‘Her nerves are bad,' I said. ‘She's been working too hard and needs a rest. You won't upset her this evening?'

He held out his hands palm upwards, like a magician showing the audience he has nothing to hide. ‘Dear Jessie, how well you protect our friend.' He waited until I took his hands. ‘Don't worry; I will be on my best behaviour. You know, I can be let loose in civilised company.' He smiled and the corners of his pale blue eyes crinkled.

There was a snort and we both looked up. Camille stood at the top of the stairs, her face a mask of contempt. She greeted Rodin with icy correctness. I sighed. No doubt they'd quarrelled again and I'd be petitioned by both sides until a peace was brokered, and be expected to arrange a safe place for their passionate reconciliation. I was beginning to detest my role as go-between.

Rodin laughed and held out his hands to Camille. ‘My dream in stone
.
'

Baudelaire's line had become his pet name for her, an intimate joke that I should not have been privy to, but I knew everything about their affair. Camille liked to pull me into her bed at night and confide in me in the darkness. She whispered the details until I was both sickened and craving more.

Now she swept past Rodin into the dining room, ignoring his outstretched arms, and I knew the game was on and the part I would have to play in it. Over dinner, while Rodin complimented my mother on the meal and her home and fed my father choice snippets of gossip from the art world that he found so fascinating, Camille did not bother to hide her boredom. She sighed extravagantly and left her food untouched.

Rodin ignored her and kept up his elaborate show of entertaining my parents. Ma nodded politely, bewildered by the torrent of French, while Papa translated the odd anecdote for her between guffaws. Rodin could be charming when he tried, and he was trying hard, in order, I suspected, to spite Camille. Hers was not the only stony face at the table – I was furious at them both for using my
parents as pawns in their game.

Papa didn't seem to notice anything amiss but Ma has always been a shrewd judge of people, a skill she'd picked up during her years as a barmaid in a railway hotel. She watched as Rodin stared hungrily at Camille while my father talked about the Irish Question.

Ma dropped her napkin onto the table. ‘Jessie, perhaps it's time we retired and let the men enjoy their cigars and port.'

I rose, but Camille stayed in her chair scowling defiantly. For a dreadful moment I thought she was going to refuse to leave the table, but when my mother stared her down, she scraped back her chair and stood. In the drawing room, Camille paced the rug and when it rucked up, she kicked it in a temper.

Ma didn't look up from the cards she was dealing. ‘Jessie, dear, tell your friend that carpet is a very expensive Voysey.'

A strained hour passed before Papa and Rodin came in, their faces rosy from too much port.

‘A little music would be soothing for the digestion, don't you think, my dear fellow?' Papa said. ‘Jessie, give us one of your Scottish songs. My daughter sings like an angel, Auguste.'

‘If she sings as well as she sculpts then I will be in heaven,' Rodin said with a broad smile. ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle Claudel will accompany her?' He indicated the baby grand piano, its dark wood gleaming in the candlelight.

Camille's expression darkened. ‘You know I detest music. An artist paints with her eyes not with her ears.'

Papa didn't seem to notice the tension between Rodin and Camille but I recognised the signs only too well.

‘Never mind,' he said. ‘Jess can accompany herself. She really is quite talented.'

I saw Rodin smirk at Camille and the look of venom she shot back at him.

‘Papa,' I said. ‘Perhaps our French friends would not appreciate these simple folk songs. I'm tired, and I think I'll go to bed.'

But Rodin rushed forward, grabbed me by the arm and led me to the piano. ‘
Mais, Jessie! Chantez, chantez!
Your Scottish songs, they sound so charming.'

Ma frowned at me. ‘It's not like you to be shy, or to forget your manners, dear. Do as Mr Rodin asks.'

‘If you insist,' I lifted the piano lid and cracked my knuckles to punish Ma. She seemed not to hear and went back to her game of patience. It had been a while since I'd played, but my fingers ran over the keys in familiar patterns and soon I was lost in the ballads about love lost, broken hearts and forced partings. I thought of William, who had not been near Wootton House, even though I'd heard he was in town. He'd taken up his new post in Manchester. I'd finally got up the courage to write to him there, to say I wanted to explain, but he hadn't replied. I'd managed to convince myself I was in the right and that he was being pigheaded. I started another song about forbidden love and my thoughts switched to Georges. He had written letter after letter to me since I'd left France, each more passionate and intemperate than the last. ‘I wish you weren't leaving,' he had said before I left, holding onto my hands and speaking urgently. ‘Paris without you is torture to me. Everywhere holds the ghost of you. You will come back, won't you? And when you do, I need to know your decision about us. I can't wait any longer.'

I came to the end of the last song in a dream. The last note hung in the air and silence filled the room. It was broken by Rodin, clapping wildly.

‘Bravo! Bravo! Encore!
Une exécutation géniale!
To have two such talents – art and music – this is astounding.' Rodin rushed forward with his hands outstretched and kissed me three times on the cheeks. He turned to Ma and said: ‘Madame Lipscomb, I congratulate you on your gifted daughter. You must be proud of her – and after such a triumph at the Academy, too.' He glanced slyly at Camille. ‘She is, without a doubt, the most talented person in this room.'

I knew what he was doing. But it was rare for Rodin to be this effusive in his praise, and I found myself revelling in his approval despite myself. It was difficult to resist Rodin when he used his full power.

He held out his hands to me. ‘Jessie, I have something for you, to thank you for all the help you have given me.' He lowered his voice so only I could hear. ‘The help you have given us.' We both looked at Camille. She was staring at a book in her lap and was quite still. Rodin spoke loudly again. ‘I have a gift, for you, from one true artist to another. Wait here.'

He excused himself and when he returned he handed me a box. Inside was a small sculpture, a family group. A Rodin, for me!

For a while I couldn't speak. When I did it was with tears in my eyes.
‘
Thank you
, Maître.
'

Camille's face was thunderous, but I was too swept away by Rodin's attention to notice that a storm was about to burst over me. I was enjoying my moment in the sun. In Paris I was used to playing second fiddle to Camille, both to Rodin and professionally. But this was my home, my family, and it had been I who had the resounding success at the Royal Academy. I see now that I too was being used as pawn in the lovers' game; without me there would have been no sport that evening. In my blind pride, I ignored Camille's fury and graciously agreed when Rodin begged for an encore. I placed the sculpture on the piano lid and placed my hands on the keys once more. But I had sung only a few bars when Camille clapped her hands to her ears and screamed.

My hands stopped. We all stared at her. The only sound was the rain being thrown at the windows. Camille had our full attention.