Free Rodin's Lover by Heather Webb Page A

would begin looking sooner. Somethingneeded to be done about Amy and Emily as well. They seemed not to care whether or not they advanced with their pieces, and what’s more, they whispered about her at every turn. It did not make her work any easier.
    She ambled along the street in search of a comfortable place to sit. She missed Villeneuve, its wild landscape and even the torrential rain that pelted her skin—the kind of weather that ripped away artifice and deepened the soul. Though Paris had its own sensibility, a heartbeat even, it did not offer her the same comfort as her summer home.
    Camille sat on a bench near the entrance of a popular brasserie facing a nook of greenery, a place artists and students frequented. She flipped open her sketchbook and retrieved a pencil from her pocket. A hungry bird hopped about a patch of grass. Pencil to paper and she drew its outline. She lost herself in her drawing, the sun warm on her face despite the chill. As two women passed, she glanced at their heads inclined toward one another, their eyes condemning. She did not care that she sat unescorted, boldly in the middle of the day. Her reputation could be damaged, but it mattered little to her. She did not hold society’s mores on a pedestal. She pitied those women. Their lives must be insipid, each moment of their days planned by another, their friends chosen by another, their very dreams dictated by another.
    Camille sketched the robin’s feathers, the lump of its rusty throat, its curious gleaming eye. She looked up again as a gentleman neared her bench. His agile form moved with grace, his curling dark hair bouncing beneath his cap. He stopped for a moment to retrieve his watch from his jacket pocket. She noted his long thin fingers, his angular jaw—yes, he seemed familiar. He sat beside her on the edge of the bench and nodded, a polite greeting from a stranger. She remembered now. He had been at the fountain, waiting for a sculptor to choose him.
    “Good day, monsieur.” Camille closed her sketchbook, suddenly excited.
    The gentleman smiled. “Good day.”
    His thick Italian accent confirmed her suspicions. “You are a model?” she said as more of a statement than a question. “I saw you at the Rue Bonaparte.”
    “
Oui
.” He tipped his hat and bowed his head. A smile tugged the corners of his lips. “How do you do?”
    “Are you currently employed?” She flashed her most congenial smile.
    “Not at the moment.” He returned her smile. “But I have worked with Mercié, Bourdelle, and Rodin. Do you know a sculptor who might be interested in working with me?”
    “I know none of those sculptors, so I will have to take your word for it. But I am interested in your services, monsieur.”
    He raised one dark eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
    “May I?” She held out her hands.
    “Of course.” He removed his hat and leaned toward her.
    Camille tilted his head and probed the bones of his face. “You’d make a fine study.”
    The gentleman smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “So I’ve been told.”
    “I’d hire you for multiple projects, if you are available,” she said. And terminate Maria the instant she returned. “Would you care to see my studio?”
    Another look of surprise crossed his features. “Your studio?”
    “It’s not far from here.” She gathered her utensils.

    They returned to 117 Notre Dame des Champs. Camille entered the studio in her characteristic rush and tossed her shawl and coat over a chair.
    “
Mes amies
, this is Monsieur—” She stopped and looked at him with a quizzical expression.
    “Giganti.” He removed his hat. “
Bonjour
.”
    “Welcome,” Amy said, smiling brightly at their guest. Her hand flew to her hair in an instinctive gesture.
    Emily dropped the hunk of bread she nibbled on her plate.
    “Giganti has agreed to—”
    The door opened and Maria entered, out of breath. “I’ve made it!” She stopped when she saw the handsome Italian. “And who do we