Free Paris Kiss by Maggie Ritchie Page B

Rodin thinks you’re up to the job, who am I to go against the maître ?’ He began to pace to and fro, his hands behind his back as he delivered an evidently well-rehearsed lecture. ‘I warn you now, there won’t be any allowances made for you. We work twelve hours a day, sometimes sixteen. Rodin makes the maquettes and we turn them into stone or bronze statues weighing a ton. We work as a team here, there’s no glory for anyone other than Rodin. The pay is poor and Rodin can be difficult, but,’ another shrug, ‘he is a genius.’ He stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips. ‘I’ll treat you like the men – no better, but no worse. You’ll get a fair crack of the whip. If you can take the pace, I’ll have your backs. If not, you should leave now.’
    Camille was the first to speak. ‘We are not afraid of hard work, or of Monsieur Rodin. We expect him to be as exacting with us as with any of the men working here. You will find us their equal in stamina, if not strength. And as for talent, he has chosen Jessie and me out of his many students.’
    â€˜You think you’re up to it?’ Desbois rubbed his chin. ‘One other thing – this is the coldest place on God’s earth in winter. Enough to freeze your balls off, eh Georges?’ He waited for our reaction. He wanted to shock us and it made me angry. If he imagined he could intimidate us with some coarse language, he was about to be proved wrong.
    â€˜I suppose that’s where we have the advantage, Monsieur as, fortunately, we have no balls,’ I said with a sweet smile, spreading my skirts. Desbois looked stunned for a moment, and then he guffawed and slapped Georges on the back.
    â€˜A pair of cool customers. Where did Rodin find them? The lads better watch out, they’ve met their match with these two. I tell you what, come back next week and we’ll see what you’re made of.’ He turned his back on us, whistling as he returned to his work.
    Georges lit a cigarette. ‘Well done. Desbois is not usually so easy to get round.’ He looked at me through the smoke. ‘You make quite an impression, Jessie.’
    Camille scowled and pulled at his arm. ‘Come on, we’re wasting time. I thought you were going to show us around.’
    Studio M, Rodin’s main Paris atelier , was cavernous, with bare white walls and a flagstone floor. Light flooded in through arched windows onto plaster models of all sizes and in different stages of completion. On one table, the figure of a man was crouched over two small, lifeless bodies. It was Dante’s Ugolino, an Italian nobleman who was imprisoned for treason and forced to eat his children’s corpses before he too starved to death. I wrenched my eyes away from the gruesome tableau and looked around the room. It was almost too much to take in: every surface was crowded with plaster arms, legs and heads. At the back of the room, vast portals towered nearly to the ceiling. Figures sprang out of them and seemed to writhe in ecstasy. I walked towards the massive structure, as if in a trance, until I was close enough to study the yearning, tormented creatures. Each tiny face was contorted by a different expression of agony, lust or despair. I had never seen anything quite like it.
    â€˜ The Gates of Hell ,’ Georges stood behind me, so close I could smell his lemon cologne and feel the warmth from his body. When he pointed at the giant doors, it was as if he embraced me. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying about the figure that topped the doors, a seated nude, his chin on his fist, as if deep in thought. I could not know then that The Thinker would become the world’s most iconic sculpture.
    â€˜It is Dante, looking out over the circles of hell,’ Georges said.
    â€˜No, it is Rodin.’ My senses overwhelmed first by Rodin’s masterpiece and then by Georges’ physical