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Zusatztext "Camille Claudel is an audacious and authentic character who deserves to be remembered. Rodin’s Lover is epic and unflinching—a book you won't soon forget."— Deanna Raybourn! New York Times bestselling author of City of Jasmine “Written with great empathy! this novel of the visceral world of Paris ateliers! of clay-stained dresses and fingernails! and talent which endures! comes vividly to life."— Stephanie Cowell! author of Claude and Camille: A Novel of Monet Praise for Becoming Josephine: “Webb holds up a light into the inner recesses of a fascinating and contradictory woman . . . Becoming Josephine is an accomplished debut.”— New York Journal of Books “Webb’s portrayal of the range of Josephine’s experience—narrow escapes from bloodshed and disease! dinner-table diplomacy! and her helpless love for Napoleon! her children and a small dog—is exceptionally concise and colorful. A worthy fictional primer on Empress Josephine.”— Kirkus “A debut as bewitching as its protagonist.”— Erika Robuck! author of Call Me Zelda Informationen zum Autor Heather Webb is a former French teacher, a blogger, and a member of the Historical Novel Society. She lives with her family in Connecticut. Klappentext A mesmerizing tale of art and passion in Belle Époque France As a woman! aspiring sculptor Camille Claudel has plenty of critics! especially her ultra-traditional mother. But when Auguste Rodin makes Camille his apprentice—and his muse—their passion inspires groundbreaking works. Yet! Camille's success is overshadowed by her lover's rising star! and her obsessions cross the line into madness. Rodin's Lover brings to life the volatile love affair between one of the era's greatest artists and a woman entwined in a tragic dilemma she cannot escape. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2015 Heather Webb Part One 1881–1885 L’Aurore The Dawn Chapter 1 Camille dropped to her knees in the mud. Her skirts absorbed last night’s rain and the scent of sodden earth. She plunged a trowel, stolen from her neighbor’s garden, into the red clay and dug furiously, stopping only to slop hunks of earth into a wooden trough. She needed one more load to mold the portrait of Eugénie. The maid would sit for her again, regardless of her protestations. The sun climbed the sky, though it did little to warm the damp chill. Thankfully, the heat of summer had not unleashed its force to scorch the grass and dry the earth. It made for easier digging. Camille breathed in a lungful of air laced with the mineral scent of clay. Perfection. “Read to me, little brother,” she said. “If you’re not going to help, that is.” Paul dangled his legs over the edge of the boulder on which he sat. “I’ll help you lug it home, but I’m not listening to Mother’s howling over my soiled trousers again.” “Coward.” Paul cared for appearances, with his proud chin and shining blond hair, his perfectly polished boots, even at the young age of thirteen. Camille grinned. It was a fatal mistake in a household with a sister obsessed with clay. Her brother ignored her and flipped to a page in Verlaine’s Poèmes Saturniens. He read aloud. How far away now is all that lightness And all that innocence! Ah, backwards yet, From black winter fled, to the Springtime of regret, From my disgust, my boredom, my distress. “Can’t you read anything more lively?” Camille stood and stretched her aching back. It would not do to feel so fatigued already. She had too much to accomplish today. “You’re always so melancholy.” “As you’re always spiteful.” She gouged her fingers into the slick clay and ...
