Chapter 2 — Camille’s Burden
Camille
The murmur of Parisian life filtered through the thin walls of the cramped apartment, muffled yet persistent, like a distant tide pressing against her reality. Camille Dufour sat perched on the edge of a wooden chair that wobbled slightly beneath her weight, her hands cradling a chipped bowl of soup. The broth had long since gone cold, but she couldn’t summon the will to finish it. Across the room, her mother lay on the narrow bed, pale and frail as a wisp of smoke. The air was damp and stagnant, carrying the faint scent of mildew and the bitter tang of medicine.
Camille’s gaze wandered to the small window above the sink, its glass fogged from the chill of early spring. Beyond it, the rooftops of Paris glistened with the remnants of a light rain, their chimneys exhaling thin streams of smoke into the gray sky. The world outside felt impossibly vast, full of movement and opportunity, while hers seemed trapped within these four walls, worn smooth by repetition and sacrifice. She shifted in her seat, the chair creaking beneath her weight, and glanced toward her mother’s bed.
“Maman,” she called softly, leaning forward. Her mother stirred, her tired eyes opening just enough to meet Camille’s. “Are you comfortable? Do you need more blankets?”
Her mother shook her head gently. “No, ma petite. Sit with me a while.”
Camille set the bowl aside and crossed the room, sinking into the chair beside the bed. She reached for her mother’s hand, frail and cool in her grasp, and held it tightly. The quiet moments they shared were a fragile comfort, but they were also a relentless reminder of the weight on Camille’s shoulders. The rent, the medicine, the endless strain of keeping them afloat—it all pressed down on her chest like an anvil.
“You’ve been so strong, Camille,” her mother murmured, her voice like a flickering candle, determined to burn just a little longer. “I wish I could do more for you.”
“Hush, Maman,” Camille replied, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “You’ve done plenty. It’s my turn now.”
Her mother sighed, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “You work too hard. You should have time to dream, to create. I see the sketches you leave lying about when you think I’m not looking.”
The words struck something raw and unexpected. Camille’s fingers tightened around her mother’s hand. The well-worn leather sketchbook tucked beneath her mattress was her most guarded possession, a repository for fleeting moments of inspiration captured in charcoal and graphite. Her mother’s acknowledgment of it—a part of herself Camille had always tried to bury—stirred a strange mix of pride and shame. She looked down at their clasped hands, the words caught in her throat.
“Maman,” she began, but the creak of boots on the hallway floorboards cut her off. A knock at the door followed, sharp and deliberate. Camille stood quickly, brushing her hands against her threadbare apron before crossing the small room. She paused with her hand on the knob and glanced back at her mother, whose eyes had closed again, her breathing shallow. Camille hesitated, as if opening the door might bring more burdens than she could bear.
When she did, Étienne Moreau’s weathered face came into view, breaking into a grin beneath his thick mustache. His coat carried the faint scent of wood shavings and pigments, and he held a basket brimming with bread and cheese. His presence, as always, brought a welcome breath of warmth into the otherwise stifling space.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he greeted cheerfully, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Thought you and your mother could use a little something extra today.”
“You’re too kind, Étienne,” Camille said, accepting the basket. The weight of it in her hands felt both comforting and guilt-inducing. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “What are neighbors for? Besides, it’s not charity. I find great joy in seeing people fed and happy.”
He glanced toward the bed and offered a genial nod to Camille’s mother, who smiled faintly in return. Then, his eyes settled back on Camille, his expression softening as he studied her face.
“You look tired,” he said gently. “Have you thought more about what we talked about last week? Modeling for one of the painters I know? It could bring in some extra coin.”
Camille’s lips pressed into a thin line, her arms crossing instinctively. The idea had hung over her since Étienne had first suggested it, unresolved but persistent. The thought of standing still for hours, being scrutinized under the relentless gaze of a stranger, unsettled her deeply. It felt too much like being reduced to an object, a spectacle for someone else’s inspiration. Yet as much as she wanted to dismiss the suggestion outright, reality clawed at the edges of her pride.
“I don’t know if I’d be any good at that,” she said, her tone guarded but tinged with self-doubt.
Étienne chuckled. “Goodness has nothing to do with it, my dear. It’s about opportunity. And from what I hear, the artist in question is in quite a bind. He’s looking for a model with spirit, someone who can bring life to his work.”
Camille raised an eyebrow, her voice sharpening. “Spirit? That’s just his polite way of saying I’m difficult, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Étienne admitted with a grin. “But difficult women are often the most memorable. Think of it this way—it’s not forever, just until you’ve earned enough to ease the burden a bit. And who knows? You might find it’s not so bad.”
Camille glanced toward her mother, whose breathing was still shallow and labored despite her rest. The rise and fall of her chest reminded Camille of the fragility of their circumstances, the precarious line they walked every day. She couldn’t afford the luxury of pride, not when the alternative was letting her mother go without the care she needed.
“Who is this painter?” she asked quietly, her voice resigned but steady.
Étienne’s grin widened. “His name is Julien Armand. I believe you’ve heard of him?”
Camille frowned, searching her memory. The name was familiar, though not recent. Julien Armand had once been celebrated for his emotive, hauntingly beautiful portraits—works that seemed to capture the very essence of their subjects. But his name had faded from the salons and critiques in recent years, replaced by whispers of tragedy and withdrawal.
“I thought he’d stopped painting,” she said.
“He’s had… difficulties,” Étienne admitted, his expression growing serious. “But he’s still one of the best. If anyone can help him out of his slump and earn a decent wage in the process, it’s you.”
Camille sighed, running a hand through her auburn hair. The idea still felt distasteful, but Étienne’s optimism was infectious. And more importantly, she knew she didn’t have the luxury to refuse.
“All right,” she said at last, her tone firm despite the knot in her stomach. “I’ll try it. But if he starts treating me like some mindless object, I’ll walk out and never look back.”
“Fair enough,” Étienne replied with a laugh. “I’ll let him know you’re willing. You won’t regret this, Camille. Just remember—you’re doing this for you and your mother, not for anyone else.”
As he left, the apartment fell silent once more. Camille returned to her chair by the bed, her mind racing. Her hand brushed against the basket, the faint scent of fresh bread mingling with the damp air. The prospect of modeling for Julien Armand filled her with equal parts dread and curiosity. What would it be like to work with someone so celebrated, yet so enigmatic? Would he see more in her than the shape of her figure, or would he reduce her to lines and shadows on a canvas?
She reached for her hidden sketchbook, running her fingers over the worn leather cover. The weight of Étienne’s words lingered in her mind, mingling with the faint hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this opportunity could lead to something more meaningful.
The rooftops of Paris glistened anew in the pale light of late afternoon. Camille whispered a silent promise to the city that loomed beyond her reach: If this was to be her first real step forward, she would make it count.
