Free Paris Kiss by Maggie Ritchie Page A

said.
    â€˜That’s the point.’ Camille’s charcoal flew across the paper.
    After a few minutes, the girl’s limbs started trembling and she stumbled. She rubbed her calf muscles and began to wail.
    I could bear it no longer and walked over to the girl’s chief tormentor, prepared to tell him what I thought of his behaviour. Before I could say anything, Georges pushed in front of me. As he passed me he laid his hand on mine and shook his head slightly. He jumped up onto the dais, took off his jacket and put it around the girl’s shoulders.
    â€˜Dry your eyes, Mademoiselle,’ he said, giving her his handkerchief. ‘They are only having some fun. Come, stop crying. Didn’t your friend tell you that all the new girls get the same treatment on their first day? Well done, you have passed the test, you’re a fully fledged professional model. Now, isn’t that something to tell your mother about tonight?’
    His actions seemed to calm the students, who began to cheer the little model, crying: ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ She smiled broadly and took a bow, her shame forgotten.
    Georges said something to her and she arranged herself into a pose that was both challenging for us to draw and easy for her to hold. He stepped off the dais, carrying his jacket over his shoulder, and tipped his hat at me with a grin.
    Camille spoke softly in my ear. ‘Duchamp is a handsome devil. You could do worse.’
    â€˜I barely know him and, besides, I’m promised to William.’
    She smiled. ‘Ah yes, William, your childhood friend. If you say so, Jessie, but I think our gallant D’Artagnan,’ she nodded towards Georges, ‘is smitten with you. That’s good – we’ll need an ally in Rodin’s studio.’
    I picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch in the outlines of the figure, but couldn’t stop thinking about Georges and how he had helped that downtrodden creature. It takes a lot to go against the crowd – I should know. He obviously didn’t give a ha’penny about what other people thought of him. I’d been too hasty to dismiss him as a shallow flirt; there was more to Georges Duchamp than those casually rumpled – devastating – good looks.
    At the end of class I was picking up some dropped charcoals when I felt rather than saw Georges crouch down beside me. His hand brushed against mine.
    â€˜I’m on my way to Rodin’s studio. You can deliver your message in person. I’ll take you there, if you want,’ he said, using the familiar ‘ tu ’.
    I met his eyes and the look in them stopped my breath. Georges held out his hand and, like a sleepwalker, I slipped my hand into his warm palm and followed him.

Chapter 11
    Georges strode through the Latin Quarter and Camille and I had to rush to keep up with him. We were out of breath, hairlines damp and corsets digging into our ribs by the time we got to 182 rue de l’Université. Rodin’s atelier was in the Dépôt des Marbres where the Government stored the marble for State commissions. Georges led us into an open-air courtyard filled with dust and noise. I had been in stone-cutting yards before but never one so large and busy; it was like a small factory. Georges had to shout above the din of chisels being hammered into marble and the rumble of wheelbarrows as workmen moved blocks of stone around the yard.
    â€˜Eh, Jules,’ he called to a wiry man up a ladder. ‘Come down from there and meet Rodin’s latest slaves.’
    The man slid down the outside of the ladder. He removed the cotton kerchief he’d wrapped around his face, which was dusted white and marked with two rivulets of sweat, like a weeping statue. Jules Desbois, the senior practicien or stone sculptor, wiped a filthy hand on his shirt and shook our hands.
    â€˜Women in the studio, I’ve seen everything now. But,’ a shrug of the shoulders, ‘if