Chapter 38

Paris

February 1887

On my return to Paris I rushed around to Rodin’s studio to find Camille. She had not been at the apartment and I had brushed off Madame Claudel’s entreaties to rest after my journey and paused only to wash and change my travel-stained clothes. In Studio M, I breathed in the familiar scent of wet plaster and marble dust. It was nearing the end of the working day but the courtyard, which should have been full of practiciens, was strangely empty. I pushed through the interior doors and was met with an arresting sight. Camille was standing on a table with a dustsheet wound about her like a Roman matron and there was a paper crown on her head. She waved a bottle of wine in the air, like a beacon, and was surrounded by practiciens. Camille took a swig and they cheered and whistled.

‘How do I look, Rodolphe?’ Her words were slurred.

‘Good enough to eat – like a bonbon waiting to be unwrapped.’ Rodolphe’s simian face leered at Camille and she threw back her head and laughed.

‘Behold the Statue of Liberty!’ she shouted. Camille drank deeply again and staggered, nearly losing her footing. Rodolphe caught her around the waist to steady her. ‘Here, mon ami, have a drink,’ she said to him. She was pouring wine down his throat when she caught sight of me.

‘Salut, Jessie!’ Camille beckoned to me. ‘Come and join the fun. We’ve just heard Eiffel is to build a colossal tower over Paris, even more vulgar than the Statue of Liberty he worked on with Bartholdi.’ She put the bottle to her lips again and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Those poor New Yorkers have to look at that abomination every day. Now we in Paris are to have our own monument to bad taste.’

I didn’t know what to say or do. Before we had left for England, Camille and I had been excluded from the tight-knight group of practiciens who had sneered at our work and insisted that women had no place in any atelier, let alone that of Rodin. But here she was, acting as their ringleader. It dawned on me that Rodin must have promoted her to stone carver and that she was one of them now. While I had been in Peterborough, counting the days to our reunion, she had been forging new alliances and playing studio politics, befriending the same brutes who had done everything in their power to thwart us. Now they had accepted her as Rodin’s protégée – no doubt to curry favour with the great man.

Camille jumped down and flung her arms around me. Her breath smelled of wine and her lips were stained with a ruby tidemark. ‘Drink?’ She waved the bottle in my face and I pushed it aside.

‘No thank you.’

‘No thank you,’ she mimicked in a prissy voice and grinned at the practiciens, who obligingly screamed with laughter. Camille closed one eye to focus on me and placed the bottle on a table. ‘If you’re too high and mighty to have a bit of fun with the workers, you’d better get on with your work then, English Miss. Allez!’ She clapped her hands at me, as if she were the studio manager and I a new start. She turned her back on me as if to dismiss me, and her cronies gathered around to slap her on the back.

I gathered what was left of my dignity, like a beggar woman picking up her ragged skirts, and walked out of the studio. I waited until I was in the street before I allowed my shoulders to drop. I slid down the courtyard wall until I was crouched on my haunches and buried my face in my arms. I had been humiliated. Camille had humiliated me. I lifted my head and wiped away the tears with the heels of my hands. I spoke aloud, oblivious to anyone who might be passing.

‘How dare she? That bitch! How could she? After everything I’ve done for her!’

‘Are you all right, dearie?’ An old woman leaned over me. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it?’ She patted my shoulder with one hand and I began to cry again. I heard a rustling and with a start of fury, realised she was rummaging through my satchel, which had fallen open beside me. The old cow was trying to steal from me.

‘Va t’en!’ I screamed in her face and she started back. I got to my feet and she scurried off. I searched for the vilest words I knew in both English and French and hurled them at her until she’d rounded the corner.

Camille came to breakfast the next day clutching her head. I stiffened when I saw her but she didn’t seem to notice and came barrelling over to embrace me, as if nothing had happened. She clearly had no recollection of what she’d put me through. I didn’t return her embrace; I was growing tired of dealing with her outbursts. I didn’t know where they came from, these unpredictable scenes. I was beginning to wonder if she were a secret drinker – I’d already seen some artists succumb to the grip of drink and become tiresome to be around – but my suspicions only masked a more terrifying prospect: that Camille may have been losing her mind.

She smiled at me and I looked away from her. ‘What’s the matter, Jessie, I thought you’d be more pleased to see me?’

‘I saw you, yesterday afternoon. You were with the practiciens.’

Camille rubbed her temples. ‘Sang bleu! That swine Rodolphe got me drunk and I can’t remember a thing. Did you come to the studio? Remind me never to drink with those apes again.’ She took my arm and leaned her head on my shoulder. ‘I missed you so much, ma petite anglaise. Don’t leave me alone again.’

My anger began to drain away. Camille had given me an excuse to forgive her and I grabbed it. The alternative was too desolate to contemplate.