Chapter 2

Camille was already 60 years’ old by the time I met her. I remember her big blue eyes, vacant and melancholic, that gazed in a subdued yet curious way, distrusting and filled with resentment. I can still hear the first words she said to me, “Do with me what you want, Doctor; for years I have been robbed of everything I ever had, there is nothing left to take.”

I had just graduated in medicine, my head was swimming with hopes and dreams, and I had accepted the position at the Montdevergues asylum in good faith as it was very near to Avignon where some relatives lived. It was not too far from the sea either, so that on free days I could always escape to Marseille, Toulon or Montpellier. The first time I crossed the walls of the asylum, I was filled with pride to be working in such a magnificent place. The main building was made of solid stone, and from either side of the entrance door stood large bay windows protected by wrought-iron bars, which granted the façade with a powerful, yet strangely beautiful appearance. Two more modest buildings extended on either side; the wings for the lower classes, one for men and one for women. A small house stands apart from this group of buildings, completely isolated, which they provided me with as soon as I arrived. I accepted the offer gladly, as I liked the idea of being able to enjoy a bit of solitude. The main building houses the dining hall, the storeroom, the reception, doctors’ offices, consultation rooms, the operating theatre, the visitors’ room, the living quarters for staff and the Medical Director, rooms for upper-class patients and the leisure wing, located at the rear. This building is sometimes used as a theatre, and for a few years was host to some lovely performances led by the patients themselves.

For a long time, perhaps for some years, I thought Montdevergues was an almost idyllic place. Surrounded by woods and a rich natural vegetation, going for a walk nearby soon became an enjoyable routine of mine. The climate in this region is not too extreme, being mild almost all year round, as long as you can put up with the occasional spring or autumn shower. Winter is harsh, but not too bad, and the summer heat is more bearable than on the coast where the humidity can be the culprit of many a sleepless night. I believed I had landed on my feet and that I had found the best place to begin practising my profession.

I liked to walk to the nearby village of Montfavet, located a little over a kilometre away, wandering along an unpaved road lined with a variety of trees, mostly oak and cypress. It is an easy, light stroll, without any steep hills, where you are bound to bump into country folk and friendly, thickset farmers, a common sight in this region. Athough Montfavet is thought of as a small, simple town, to me it seemed more like a spiritual retreat, where many a Frenchmen would be happy to live out their final days. Houses are generous in size and arranged in a disorderly fashion around a small square, almost haphazardly, in way that only makes sense to the inhabitants. My walks would involve a quick visit to a little brasserie for a glass of wine or beer accompanied by rye bread and cheese. There I would spend a few minutes with the locals, reading the regional paper from Avignon. Night had usually drawn in by the time I wandered back with only the moon to guide me, which was easily visible in this area with so little artificial light. I lingered a while to breathe in the pleasant, humid night air, as I sat on a rock to gaze up at the firmament or a shooting star.

Montdevergues is peppered with exquisite gardens. After years of neglect they have become rather unseemly, yet when I first arrived they were at their peak of grandeur. I would often sit down to read, on sunny days, enjoying one of the many books from the asylum library, perhaps near a fountain to bask in the gentle warmth of the sun. More often than not, I would find myself sharing the bench with one of the patients. Some of the treatments at the asylum were quite advanced and avant-garde, positing that the less problematic of patients should be allowed a certain degree of freedom. Although I was in charge of the female wing, it was on one of those benches that I met Camille, as I had not had chance to meet all of Montdevergues’ 300 patients.

-“You’re Edouard, aren’t you? The new person in charge of female patients...,” she said, sitting herself down beside me.

-“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, sitting up straight to greet her politely.

-“My name is Camille Claudel. Do with me what you want, Doctor; for years I have been robbed of everything I ever had, there is nothing left to take.”

The tone of this sad statement was dry and defeated. A feeling of despair and angst was left hanging in the air, filling my lungs, still impossible to expel.

-“Miss Claudel...,” I began, a little taken aback.

-“Call me Camille, please,” she interjected.

-“Camille, you shouldn't say things like that. There are still lots of things left to do in life.”

Camille looked at me quizzically. The sunlight had turned her dark-blue eyes almost transparent, as they shone from the shelter of her worn and wrinkled eyelids. Her expression was severe, her skin lined and withered, pallid, like an old lady who doesn’t often venture from her room. Yet the timbre of her voice was coated in an innate strength, laced with traces of culture and unmistakeable wisdom. Gazing at her was like admiring the ancient ruins of a building: the remains still exuding something of her former beauty.

-“You, Sir, are very young. I spent too many years a slave to this prison, and any flicker of hope I had has slowly been put out,” she said, still watching the flowerbeds in front of us with a disinterested gaze.

-“You, Madame, are very lucid,” I exclaimed without thinking, immediately realising my amateur’s mistake, as it was wrong to pass on an early diagnosis to a patient.

-“It would be better if I went back to my room, before you say any more absurdities that only serve to rekindle what has taken me so long to stamp out,” she said brusquely.

She quickly got up and left, almost offended, and disappeared through one of the doors of the main building without greeting anyone and without lifting her gaze from the floor. She was wearing a dark cotton dress that seemed to float around her body. I calculated that she must have been about 60, although her voice and her ability to reason showed signs of someone much younger at heart.

It wasn’t long before Cyril Mathieu, the asylum’s Medical Director at the time, claimed Camille’s space on the stone bench where I was still gathering my thoughts. Mathieu was a tall, serious and pensive man, who I had not had time to analyse so far but who seemed to me to be fair and kind to his patients. His stern face concealed a loveable and honest character, although rather secretive.

-“You’ve just met our most reputable patient, Edouard,” he said, giving me a friendly nudge on the shoulder as he slid next to me.

-“Who? That poor old lady Camille...,” I said, faltering, with the echo of her last mysterious words still resounding in my ears.

-“Yes, Camille Claudel. Doesn’t the name sound familiar to you?” Mathieu asked, blinking quizzically.

I tried to associate her with a well-known figure, perhaps related to politics or the dramatic arts, but to no avail. The surname Claudel did ring a bell, and although not very common in France, it was not particularly unusual either.

-“Yes, yes,” I said excitedly, as if discovering the answer to the most complex riddle in the world, “He’s a poet, or a playwright...”

-Well, he’s actually both. His diplomatic career is also getting off to quite a good start. His sister, on the other hand, was less fortunate, as you can see for yourself.

I detected a strange sort of sympathy in Cyril’s words, a kind of affliction towards Camille that took me by surprise. This sensitivity made me suddenly feel more at ease, which came as somewhat of a relief; I still did not trust him very much but I had wanted to bond with him.

-“About ten,” he replied rather tersely. I interpreted this as a sign there was something about Camille that Mathieu wasn’t comfortable talking about.

-“And how did she get here? She seemed to me to be quite sane, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

On that note, Cyril got up and left me submersed in a sea of questions. Alone again I could enjoy reading my book, whilst a soft breeze picked up from the west, lifting the dry heat that had clung to France for weeks and swept it all the way to the Mediterranean Sea.

It was not long before I had the feeling I was being watched, leaving me no choice but to look up. Immediately I saw who it was who had been spying on me: Camille did not take her eyes off me, as she stared down from the small window of her room. We must have been separated by almost a hundred metres but I could still make out her features. I was certain I could see an imploring, even hopeful look on her face.