Rodin's Lover Read Online Free Page B

guarding their entries.
    They turned down Rue du Parc Royal and Camille pressed her face to the glass.
    “The Hôtel de Ville,” Papa said.
    She gawked at the dozens of statues and intricate friezes that seemed to spring to life from the stone. Her fingertips tingled in anticipation. There must be so many working sculptors in Paris, her new home. She smiled.
    Their coach wound through narrowed streets and across grand boulevards.
    “Look at all the boutiques.” Louise squealed and kissed Mother on the cheek. “Imagine the gowns.”
    Mother patted her favorite daughter’s knee. “You would be lovely in yellow silk. Too bad we won’t have much to spend on frivolities.”
    Camille looked past the shops at the astounding number of gentlemen, boys, and even the odd woman on
bicyclettes
. She had seen a few before in town—the newsboy had one, the occasional neighbor—but never had she seen so many at once. Gentlemen wheeled around pedestrians and splashed through puddles, muddying the bottoms of their trousers. Some managed to ride without so much as tipping their hats. Camille cringed as one young man in a checked sac suit narrowly missed a flying hansom cab. He did not flinch and looked ahead as if nothing had happened.
    The odor of garbage rotting in the summer heat permeated the air. Mother pinched her nose. “This city is foul. How will we stand it?”
    Papa’s smile tightened, but he did not let her spoil his good humor. The rest of the family was thrilled to be in the city.
    “
Regardez
.” Paul perked up. “La Bibliothèque Nationale. Can we visit it, Papa?” Paul studied the towering library, now under construction for expansion.
    “Of course, my boy.” Papa squeezed his shoulder.
    At last they neared Montparnasse, in the fourteenth arrondissement, their new home.
    “This district is considered part of the Left Bank,” Papa said, “the home of many art schools and studios, though not Bohemian like Montmartre.” He pointed to a pack of students streaming from a narrow doorway between two brasseries.
    Every student was male.
    Camille eyed a man not much older than she. He carried a blanket-draped canvas and a satchel stuffed with paintbrushes; flaxen bristles poked from the top of his bag. A blob of violet paint smeared his cheek. “I’ll need a work space,” she mused aloud.
    Mother snorted. “And how do you propose to pay for it?”
    “All that occupies your mind is money, Mother,” Camille said, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Perhaps you should get a hobby, or a goal of sorts.”
    Mother huffed, “You ungrateful—”
    “Enough!” Papa said. “We are almost there.”
    The traffic moved and they continued on their way. When they reached their apartment, Camille sprang from the coach. She could hardly wait to explore.

    Within two weeks, Camille had settled into their apartment on the fifth floor at 135 bis Boulevard du Montparnasse, and Papa headed to his newest post in Wassy. When the first day of school arrived, she nearly skipped through the carved front doors of l’Académie Colarossi. Young women and men filed inside and scattered to their respective classrooms—drawing, painting perspectives, classical studies, sculpture. Camille inhaled a whiff of heaven: pine turpentine and paint, the chalky odor of plaster powder, and the acidic tang of shellac. Her nose sought out her favorite smell of all, the earthy scent of clay.
    She wound through the rooms and at last found the proper studio. Large windows spanned the entire length of one wall, leaving the room awash in sunlight. On the opposite wall, a system of shelves displayed finished busts of all shapes and sizes, animal caricatures, and a smattering of tools and supplies. She chose the only free stool. A petite blonde sat next to her, and beyond her, a plump yet pleasant-faced brunette. Camille glanced at the cloths covering two large lumps in front of the girls. Their current works, no doubt.
    “
Bonjour,
” the first girl said