Paris Kiss by Maggie Ritchie

her father. ‘You must let Jessie and I do this. Just think how much we will learn in Rodin’s studio! He has promised me the hands and the feet. The hands and the feet! ’
    Madame Claudel observed her daughter coolly from where she sat next to the window, a hoop of embroidery on her lap. ‘It’s out of the question.’
    Camille grasped Paul’s elbow and looked at him beseechingly to intercede, but he only blushed and turned away.
    Her husband said, ‘Now, my dear. Let us consider this proposal rationally. I presume, Camille, that this is your new friend, Mademoiselle Lipscomb?’
    Monsieur Claudel came towards me and shook my hand. He looked me up and down with a wry smile. ‘The English are such a practical race, I’m sure we can trust your judgement in this matter, Mademoiselle. What do you have to say about Monsieur Rodin’s extraordinary proposal? I know my wife trusts your steadying influence on our wayward girl.’ With his back to Madame Claudel, he winked at me and I understood my role at once: to persuade Madame Claudel our virtue would not be sullied.
    I cleared my throat. ‘It is an unorthodox proposal, yes, but it is also a great honour. Monsieur Rodin has assured us that all due proprieties will be followed.’ I took a letter from my pocket. ‘I have written to my own parents, who give their permission.’
    I handed the letter to Monsieur Claudel, who read it and gave it to his wife. We waited while Madame Claudel finished reading.
    She folded it carefully, her lips a thin line. ‘Jessie’s parents obviously trust her, and I suppose we must show the same tolerance. You may go, Camille, but I expect you to behave correctly.’ She picked up her embroidery. Monsieur Claudel grinned and motioned that we should leave the room.
    In the hall, Camille grasped my hands. ‘Oh, Jessie, you were wonderful!You have opened the door for us, a door that is locked to other women.’
    We swung each other round. We would no longer just be Rodin’s pupils, but professional artists, his colleagues!
    The rest of that memorable Sunday was taken up with a noisy family lunch that lasted four or five hours. Père Claudel took centre stage. I watched quietly as his children sought his approval, like flowers turning their faces to catch the sun’s warmth. Despite what she’d said earlier, Camille was clearly his favourite and he beamed with pride while she told him about her latest sculpture. With Paul he discussed poetry and urged him to read us one of his own. Even Madame Claudel thawed a little, batting away her husband’s hands when he squeezed her waist. For Louise he had a gentle, bullying tone, forcing her to sit at the piano where she played some of Mozart’s and Brahms’s more popular pieces, running her languorous white hands up and down the keys.
    â€˜Very pretty, my dear . Now, tell me, have you mastered the Debussy I gave you on my last visit home? He is one of France’s most exciting new composers. I’m interested to see how you interpret his L’Enfant Prodigue .’ He settled himself into a chair and steepled his hands expectantly.
    Louise pouted and stood up from the piano. ‘Oh, Papa, that tiresome modern music is too difficult for me. The key changes all the time.’
    Monsieur Claudel’s face hardened and his mocking affability disappeared. ‘You must stretch yourself if you want to become a real musician. There are to be no amateurs in this family, only real artists. Look at your sister, and your brother, how hard they work at improving on their creative gifts.’
    Louise looked mutinous. As she scowled I could see her resemblance to her older sister. Her father turned his back on her abruptly and began to talk to Camille about the forthcoming Salon exhibition. Louise bit her lip and went to sit beside Madame Claudel, from where she glared murderously at Camille.

    That night,