Rodin's Lover Read Online Free Page A

move to Paris—I will do my work in Wassy during the week and travel to Paris on the weekends. You will no longer have to move about with me every time I am sent to a new town.” He sat on the stone bench in the garden. “Your brother will go to school. I’ve already spoken with him about this.”
    The little rat. Paul hadn’t told her.
    “Louise will continue with a tutor at home and you, my dear,” he continued, his eyes twinkling, “are enrolled at l’Académie Colarossi. Now, I know it isn’t l’École des Beaux-Arts, but—”
    Camille threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Sheer joy bubbled inside her. “You won’t regret it. I’ll show those stodgy old men at l’École a thing or two about art. They’ll wish they admitted women.”
    “There’s more,” he said in a firm voice. “In exchange, I’ve promised your mother you will meet with a few suitors.”
    She froze. That would mean . . . She shook her head.
    “Camille”—he rubbed his thumb across her cheek—“I’m not asking. I’m telling you—you must.”
    Her mind raced. They could not force her to marry. She could meet a few gentlemen. What did she care? She would be a sculptor—that was all that mattered. She smiled triumphantly. “I’ll do it.”

Chapter 3

    C amille and family rode the ninety kilometers to Paris in silence until the number of houses and buildings increased, and she knew they had reached the city.
    “Here we are!” Papa said.
    They entered the northern edge of the city and traveled south through Montmartre. The carriage made a sudden turn down a narrow side street dotted with makeshift workshops. Half a dozen carts filled with
tableaux
lined both sides of the cobblestone street. Views of the Seine and its bridges, assortments of flowers, and seascapes were all for sale to passersby. Artists perched on stools, their easels propped open, prepared to sketch a willing customer.
    Warmth surged through Camille’s limbs. Others would understand her passion. A fierce happiness seized her and she laughed aloud.
    “Look.” Paul nudged her with his elbow.
    A man in a faded bowler hat made swift strokes on paper with a chunk of charcoal. The bald head and beady eyes of Jules Grévy, elected president of the Third Republic, emerged. The caricature displayed an overly large head and a narrow body. The latest bloody revolution had converted France from an imperial state to a republic once more. Papa debated Grévy’s election with the neighbors incessantly. “A moderate man who enforces change at a pace the people might digest, rather than those damned radicals,” he argued.
    The sudden screech of police whistles split the air.
    Traffic stopped. Their caravan of belongings halted. Artists slammed their cases closed and sprinted into alleyways or ducked into open taverns. People scattered in every direction. Two hackneys stacked with artwork pulled into traffic, dodging coaches, pedestrians, and street vendors, and sped away to their next destination. An officer on horseback thundered after them.
    “What’s happening?” Camille asked, eyes wide.
    A mustached policeman in black uniform stalked from vendor to vendor, flashing the pistol at his hip.
    “You need a permit to sell art on the street, or to rent a gallery space,” Papa explained. “Otherwise, you will be fined, or arrested if you have been warned before. Boucher explained this when he escorted me through Paris last month.”
    A third policeman blew his whistle and urged the traffic forward. Their caravan began to move once more.
    As they continued through the city, Camille studied the sprawl of houses and apartment buildings. Sculpted fountains, monuments of statesmen, and Grecian figures decorated the city’s gardens. Windows framed with ornate structures and carved cornices adorned the public building fronts and the more expensive homes. She longed to stroke the bumpy stone vermiculation on their facades, or the smooth marble animals