Paris Kiss (3 page)

She squinted at me through a cloud of aromatic smoke. ‘Oh, that's good,' she sighed.

Hooking her heels over the packing case, she stretched her arms above her head. I heard her back crack and felt in my own bones the familiar weariness of the sculptor. We often spent twelve hours at a stretch in the studio, hefting clay, mixing plaster and working from the top of a ladder – all in a corset and bustle, our long skirts dragging behind us under cumbersome dustcoats. I looked down at my sage-green dress that I had picked out so carefully in London and twitched its skirts out of the dust in irritation; it was ruined.

Camille, who in her workman-like navy blue dress with white collars and cuffs always made me feel overdressed, pointed at my filthy hem. ‘Your fine skirt is dirty.'

All at once I was fed up being trussed up like a butcher's goose. Nobody knew me here and I could do exactly as I pleased without fear of scandal or upsetting my parents. I could sit in a café without a chaperone and work when I liked in my own studio with undraped models, and learn from the most revolutionary sculptor of my time. Legros was right: in Paris, I could be free. I stood up and ripped off my dustcoat and started to unfasten my high-necked jacket. Camille helped me, laughing as we struggled with the tiny row of buttons. She peeled it away from my arms, her breath warm on my neck. I unhooked my skirt and it fell to the floor. I stood facing her, my arms folded, waiting. Camille shrugged and in a few minutes we were both in our bloomers. We stood at the studio window and watched a flock of starlings swoop and turn in the violet sky.

When it was time to go home, we locked up and went downstairs. Outside, in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, most of the
atelier
windows were open to let in the last of the light, and the warm air was full of the sound of hammering. Camille walked with a slight limp and she stumbled on the uneven cobbles. I slipped my arm through hers without comment and she pressed her weight against me.

‘You know, Jessie, finding a new friend, it's like falling in love.'

‘Yes. Just like falling in love.'

Chapter 3

Asylum of Montdevergues

September 1929

In the milky light that spilled into the waiting room, Camille looked for a moment like her young self. She held on to my hands as if reluctant to let me go.

‘How could I not have recognised my own Jessie?'

‘Well, it's been a long time.'

‘A lifetime ago, another world,' she said with such sadness that my heart contracted. ‘The first time I saw you I knew we would be friends. How beautiful and proud you were, when you walked into the studio in all your finery. You were all dressed up like a fashion plate; do you remember that ridiculous hat with the stuffed bird?'

‘You mean my
merle bronzé,
if you don't mind!' How I had loved that hat. It was the fashion then for hats to be decorated with whole birds and this one had a blackbird with iridescent amber and blue feathers. The cloches now are elegant and give a neat silhouette, but I still sometimes hanker after the extravagances of the Eighties. I tried not to look at the battered black hat crammed on Camille's head. She had been so beautiful with her tight black curls tucked under a simple boater. But her dark eyes gleamed with some of her old spirit and it was good to hear that guttural laugh again. The longer we were together, the more she seemed to become her old self, as if our friendship and the memories of our youth in Paris gave her strength. I wanted to prolong this moment and I laughed with her.

‘I soon learned to dress like a true bohemian – I blame you for that,' I said.

‘And I like an English lady. Do you remember the stripes you persuaded me to buy, and the hat with its ostrich feather?'

‘What about the Japanese embroidered silk jackets we bought together in that funny little shop?' I said. ‘We must have looked a sight.'

Camille touched my face again, as if to smooth away the marks of time. ‘My Jessie, you were always so strong and straight and true. You haven't changed at all.'

I smiled. ‘If only that were true.'

‘
Ah, bouf!
Me, I know I have changed. Remember the pretty bust you made of me? The one Rodin was so cruel about?' I flinched and she laughed again. ‘Still hurts,
hein
? Always so competitive, Jessie!' She sighed and looked at her worn hands. ‘We were so young, we never imagined one day we would be old like this.' Her voice trembled and I covered her hands with my own. She looked up at me with her navy blue eyes. ‘I have lost everything. But you, Jessie, you are the same.'

She was wrong; I wasn't the same woman who had walked into Camille's
atelier
all those years ago. How could I be? I was sixty-eight on my last birthday and nobody gets to that age without being dealt a few blows by life. At twenty-two, when I arrived in Paris, I was going to be a great artist. Nothing else mattered. But that ambition was ripped away from me, and it was Camille who had been to blame. The old bitterness rose up again, rushing through me like lava in a volcano. I still had a temper, but over the years I had learned to keep the old rage deep down inside me. I mustn't give into it now, not with Camille standing before me so frail and diminished. No, it was best not to think about the rift that had split apart our world, the golden world of our Paris youth. The muffled tick of the wall clock reminded me that I didn't have much time with Camille. There was so much I wanted to ask her, but I would have to be careful not to tip her into the mania I'd caught a terrifying glimpse of earlier. I looked around the dingy room, at the walls streaked with damp, the shabby furniture. In the corner there was a glass door leading to a garden with a stone bench.

I nodded towards the French window. ‘Shall we step outside? It's a bit stuffy in here.'

As we walked towards the bench, Camille leaned on me but there was no weight to her. The wind had risen and she shivered despite her shapeless coat. Her limp was worse than ever and I tightened my arm around her.

‘Are you cold? Do you want to go back in?' I said.

‘No, no, I like the wind.' She closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun. ‘Let's sit and talk a while.'

We sat on the bench and watched a hawk, perhaps the one I had seen earlier, high above the asylum walls. Wings outstretched, it rode the updraft looking for prey. It plummeted out of sight only to reappear, a small bird fluttering in its claws. The wind moaned as it hurtled around the desolate garden and I crossed my arms to fend off its cold embrace. Beyond the forbidding walls, I knew the deep valley fell away in a murderous drop. It was as if Camille and I were the only people left alive, perched at the edge of the world.

Camille rested her boots one on top of the other. She turned her face up to the grey vault of a sky and closed her eyes, as if relishing the watery sun.

‘I wonder what happened to Georges?' she said.

I nearly cried out. She had caught me unawares; I was dismayed that his name still had an effect on me even after all these years. Damn him. Rosa had told me it would get better: one day I would think of him and not be able to recall his name. But I had never forgotten Georges. At first I thought that Camille meant to hurt me, but she had spoken so casually. I remembered then that I had never had the chance to tell her what happened between Georges and me. Our friendship had broken in two by then.

I brought my breath under control and kept my voice light. ‘Georges? I have no idea. He's happily married, no doubt, with a troop of grandchildren.'

Camille shook her head and laughed. ‘A grandfather! Not our Georges! Perhaps, if you'd stayed…' She turned to me, her eyes sharp in her ruined face. ‘He never got over you, you know. Pestered me for months after you left Paris, mooning about the studio and interrupting my work with questions about you, wanting to know if he should follow you and bring you back.'

I was furious that he still had the power to hurt me after all these years. This time I didn't try to hide my anger.

‘But he didn't follow me, did he? Typical of him to talk big and do nothing.'

Camille shrugged. ‘I don't know why you're so angry. You were lucky, you were able to run away, please yourself as you always did and abandon your friends without so much as a goodbye.'

I bit my lip. Camille must know that this wasn't true, that it was she who had abandoned me. But she didn't give me a chance to speak and carried on in a rush.

‘I, on the other hand, was trapped. Rodin would not let me go – he hounded me until the day he died.' She wrenched her eyes from the hawk and glared at me, as if I were to blame for her sorrows. ‘It was his gang of murderous thieves who put me in this living grave.'

Without warning, Camille howled and leaped to her feet. Her hands clutched the air, pulling and pinching at it as if she were sculpting an unseen face from invisible clay. I jumped up and tried to calm her but she pushed me away with a surprising strength so I nearly lost my footing. Her eyes were wild and she spat on the ground.

‘
La bande de Rodin!
I knew it! They sent you here to get my secrets! You don't think I know their game? They try to poison me still, even though he's dead and buried, God rot his soul. It's why I won't take the meals they try to feed me in this prison. I know their game, every plate poisoned. It's why I eat only boiled potatoes and eggs that I cook myself in my room.'

Camille was starving herself to punish Rodin. It explained why she was as frail as a bird, her hair thin, and her eyes sunken, and the stale smell that came off her. She was muttering now and pacing back and forth in a tight circuit. She pulled at her clothes and slapped her face. I was worried she would hurt herself and tried to lead her back to the bench, but she shrugged me off.

‘But Camille,' I said. ‘Nobody is trying to poison you here. The nurse who showed me in here, she seemed kind.'

‘Don't be fooled, Jessie, they are all in Rodin's pay.' She grabbed my arm and pulled me towards her. Her breath was sour and I could see her lips, like dry leaves rubbing together.

Her voice took on the metallic quality I'd noticed earlier when she was raving. ‘The doctor, Charpenel, he pretends to be a doctor, but he's really one of Rodin's lackeys. He can't fool me, I know what he's up to, giving me art materials, saying he wants me to sculpt, to sketch, that it'll be good for me. Good for me! Good for Rodin more like, that bastard.' With astonishing agility she jumped onto the bench and shook her fist at the asylum walls. I clutched at her coat, hanging onto her so she would not fall, and begged her to come down.

Camille ignored me and stretched her arms wide. She shouted into the wind: ‘I will never work again, do you hear me, Rodin? I know you have told this so-called doctor to steal my ideas. You have always stolen my ideas, always, right from the start, when you pretended to love me.'

I felt her sag and caught her and helped her down so she sat on the bench, slumped against me. She looked up at me with eyes that were almost black, as if she were not seeing me but looking far back, into our past.

‘Rodin,' she whispered. ‘The great man. But he stole his greatness from me.' She clutched at me and I held her more tightly. ‘He never had an idea in his life that didn't come from me.' She began to sob. ‘Now I am forgotten, hidden away in this place full of lunatics, just like he always wanted.'

I wanted to remind her Rodin was long dead, that he couldn't hurt her now, and that he had no part in putting her away. But it was no use: her mind had drifted free of its mooring and it would only upset her if I tried to use reason. And, in truth, there was a kind of logic in her ravings. Rodin had taken what he wanted from her. I knew only too well the power Rodin had over her – over both of us. After all, we were only young women, his pupils, and he was the Great Artist. And a man. Camille was not the only one who had been betrayed by Rodin. He had promised me so much, but like Camille, my talent had not been allowed to blossom.

No, I would not defend Rodin to poor, broken Camille. Instead I began to talk quietly to her of our early days in Paris, when we were giddy with our own power and believed we could do anything.

Chapter 4

Paris

June 1884

That evening, after I had met Rodin for the first time, Camille and I walked through the streets of Paris as the sky deepened from purple to black and the lamps were being lit. As she slipped her key into the front door of her family's top-floor apartment, I was telling her about life class at South Ken.

‘The poor girl had been educated in a convent school and there she was, faced with her first nude model. As soon as he unwrapped the draperies she turned white as a sheet and rushed to the lavatory. You should have heard
Maître
Legros curse her as she crept back to her easel. It was fortunate that the nuns hadn't taught her much French beyond
la plume de ma tante
.'

Camille laughed, loud and unabashed, showing her teeth and the redness of her wide mouth, as a man would. I was learning that she was a woman of big emotions; she cared nothing for modesty and I loved her candour. I had never met anyone like Camille before. But I found out how ruthless she could be when the maid, Eugénie, appeared looking thunderous. She snatched our coats, glared at Camille and turned on her heel. I was taken aback: my mother would never have tolerated such behaviour from one of our maids, but Camille seemed unfazed.

‘The little bitch still hasn't forgiven me for stealing her room for my studio,' she said. ‘What a fuss! I'm sure the bed in the corner of the kitchen is just as comfortable and far warmer.' Camille called after her. ‘Don't pout, you little idiot, it'll only give you wrinkles.' The maid disappeared down the corridor and Camille flicked her wrist. ‘
N'importe quoi
, she'll get over it. Let's eat, I'm starving. It's a shame Papa is away working in the countryside, but you'll meet him soon. I think you'll like him, he's a terrible tease.'

We went into the dining room where the maid was stalking around the empty chairs, ladling out fragrant portions of some kind of stew. Camille sat down and tucked a napkin into her collar. ‘Eugénie, even when you're sulking, you cook like a goddess.' The maid's lips twitched as if she were suppressing a smile and Camille winked at me, her mouth already full.

‘Camille! Where are your manners? How many times do I have to ask you to behave like a lady and not a street urchin?' Camille's mother was standing in the doorway, dressed in joyless black, her hair scraped back in a severe low bun.

‘
Mais maman, j'ai un faim de loup!
' Camille said. ‘You know I'm always famished after a day at the studio. Don't be cross.' Camille went to her mother and put her arm around the stiff back and kissed her cheek but, unlike my own darling Ma, she did not return the embrace and shrugged her off. Camille stepped away from her and sat down with a thump. I could see she was upset by the rebuff. Her mother seemed to be the only person who could hurt Camille with her coldness. I squeezed Camille's hand under the table and smiled brightly at the old ogre.

‘Madame Claudel,' I said. ‘I'm sorry. It was my fault. I couldn't help myself. I was so desperate to taste this dish. Camille was only keeping me company, as her guest. Dinner here is always so mouth-watering. I wonder if I might have the receipt for my mother?'

She flushed and I could see the Ice Queen had begun to thaw. Madame C was a consummate housewife – what the French call
une
bonne femme
– and praising her household was a sure way to please her. I clasped my hands together and gushed shamelessly, eager to deflect her spite away from Camille.

‘I'm so grateful for your hospitality, you've treated me with such kindness since I came to Paris.'

‘My dear child, you are most welcome.' She spoke sharply to Camille again. ‘You should be more like your friend, Jessie. She at least remembers her manners.' But she patted her daughter's hand and sat down, with a creaking of stays and a great deal of sighing, as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. She was a martyr as a well as a tyrant, always complaining of her lot, looking after her three children alone while her husband lived it up in the countryside. Living under her roof made me appreciate my own gentle and loving mother. Her persecution of Camille was fierce, and it made me all the more determined to be a loyal friend.

Camille's brother Paul wandered into the dining room with his nose in a book, as always. He was a tall, thin boy, and as shy and awkward as Camille was bold and friendly. But in his own earnest way, he was as passionate as his big sister.

‘Good evening, Paul,' I said, to which he reddened and dropped his book.

‘Ah, um, g-g-g…'

Camille laughed. ‘You should be flattered, Jessie, my little Paul stammers like that only when he talks to a pretty girl.'

Paul's blush spread to the roots of his hair and I kicked Camille under the table. To distract him, I picked up the book he had dropped and looked at its cover before handing it back to him.

‘You are reading Verlaine? I'm afraid I find him rather difficult.'

Paul's expression grew eager, his earlier embarrassment forgotten. ‘Oh, but you must persevere! The meaning is not important but the sound, the music of the words. And you must try Mallarmé and Rimbaud, too.'

‘
Les poètes maudits
,' I said. I loved Verlaine's name for the scandalous young bloods: the cursed poets.

He looked surprised. ‘You have read them, then?'

Camille snatched the book from Paul's hands and began leafing through it. ‘Don't underestimate Jessie, little brother. She has fire in her blood, like you and me.' She slid the book across the table at him and whispered: ‘You'd better not let Maman catch you with this.'

They both darted a look at their mother, but she was busy with the maid.

Paul shrugged and resumed reading. ‘Maman never reads my books.'

I don't know if it was his bookishness or his shy good manners, but I warmed to Paul straight away. I'd always wanted a younger brother to mother and fuss over, and he was so sweet natured and shy. I soon discovered that he was intensely religious, which struck the only note of discord between him and the scornfully atheistic Camille. He took me to Mass and lent me copies of Christian writings and during our walks to church, I discovered he was as passionate about Cardinal Newman as he was about the scandalous Rimbaud.

Louise, on the other hand, I found harder to like. She came in late to dinner, but where Camille would have been reprimanded, her mother fussed over her and helped her to a big ladleful of food. The baby of the family, Louise was a petulant, spoiled creature who looked remarkably like a prissy doll I'd detested as a child and had dropped on her annoying little porcelain face. Louise Claudel was a prettier but more insipid version of her older sister. She had the same dark curls, but they were carefully arranged in glossy ringlets and decked in ribbons, and her dress was a froth of lace and more ribbons. She was seventeen, only two years younger than Camille, but already she had acquired the feminine wiles of a much older woman. Louise dimpled at her mother but rudely ignored me. I was her elder at twenty-two, but she treated me like an insignificant paying guest. I had taken an instant dislike to her.

Camille narrowed her eyes at her sister. ‘What have you been doing today, Louise? Let me guess, you have been grappling with important affairs, such as whether to line your new dress with silk or
broderie anglaise
.'

Louise stuck out her tongue. ‘
Tais-toi
, Camille. You always think you're so clever.'

‘Cleverer than you, but then that wouldn't be hard.' Camille turned to speak to me and I saw Louise shoot her sister a venomous look. There was a murderous rivalry between them that shattered my illusions about sisterly love. Perhaps there were some advantages to being an only child, after all.

Camille placed her palms on the table. ‘Maman, please can we eat now?'

The long day in the studio had left me ravenous too – we often forgot to stop to eat – and I was grateful when everyone took up their spoons. By the end of the meal, the earthenware dish lay empty and my corset dug into my waist. Madame Claudel tried to interest us in a game of cards but Camille noticed my drooping eyelids and we made our excuses.

I loved the little bedroom I had been given. Compared to my huge bedroom at home, it was cramped, with barely enough space for the cast-iron bed and the armoire. But when I opened the full-length windows, the lights of Paris spread out before me like a jewelled skirt.

Camille came to stand beside me at the iron balcony. ‘I love it here,' she said. ‘I couldn't live anywhere else now.'

She helped me unpin my hair and with the cumbersome task of taking off my corset. When I was in my chemise and bloomers, she laughed.

‘I think today you started a new trend in studio costume for young lady artists,
petite anglaise
.' Camille put her arms around me and I leaned into her embrace. Her cheek was soft against mine and I closed my eyes and smelled the clay in her hair. I knew in that moment that I had found the perfect friend, one I would love all my life.