Camille Claudel Book Novels & Stories

"And now you want to return them because you know I'm alive." "No," Margaret shook her head, a tear spilling down her cheek. "We want to return them because we've read them. All of them. And we..." Her voice broke completely. Richard covered his wife's hand with his own. "We failed you, Camille. In ways we're only beginning to understand. Your journals, they show a pattern we were too blind to see." A server approached, sensing the tension. Camille requested water for the table and said they weren't ready to order.

Camille’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Yeah. If what we thought of is correct and it was Clarissa who killed her, then it is safe to assume that she didn’t use conventional means.” I explained. “And how exactly do we know she didn’t use conventional means?” Sarah asked. “Well, I spent a lot of time with her. She is not a conventional woman.” I simply said. “Ugh.” Camille sighed, “All this talk of murder and conspiracies is giving me a terrible headache.” She groaned in exhaustion, “Could we maybe call it a day? I am tired and need to desperately freshen up. I smell like paint.” She said,

“You? Since when do you keep friends? Who is it? Is it safe?” Riven’s tall figure suddenly flickered across Isabelle’s mind. Her fingers tightened slightly, and she gave a small nod. “It’s safe.” Camille studied her a moment longer but didn’t press further. Soon, the waiter brought their meals. As Isabelle sipped at her drink, Camille reached into her bag and pulled out a slim folder, placing it on the table for her to look at. Isabelle frowned slightly, reaching for it. She flipped it open and her eyes widened slightly. It was a script.

out of the bathroom in her bathrobe, she’d washed her hair so she wanted to dry it. Roman was in the room, seated on the couch staring at his phone. Camila looked around the room trying to find the hair dryer, she finally found it at the top of one of the shelves. She stretched her hand trying to reach the dryer, Roman was looking at her with an amused look on his face, he found it very cute the way she was jumping trying to get it, even though she was an arm short. He walked over to her and grabbed it off the shelf without even raising his legs. “you’re welcome” he said handing it to her. Camila huffed and walked over to the dress stand at the side of the room. She began to dry her hair sl

Still beside her keys exactly where she had placed it Friday night. “He gave me another book,” she said. “Another one,” Camille said. “I haven’t opened it.” A short silence. Then: “I know. I can hear it in how you said it.” Camille paused. “Open it, Selene.” Not unkind. Just the direct voice, the one Camille used when she had already worked something out and was waiting for the other person to arrive at it. Selene looked at the book. They talked for twenty more minutes. Camille’s week. Marcus and the thing with the kitchen tiles that had been going on for three weeks. The small ordinary things that existed outside of corners and terms and questions left sitting in cold night air. Then goodni

Because that was the real question. Wasn't it? Not whether monsters existed. They clearly did. Not whether evil existed. It clearly did. The question was what happened when good people became tired of waiting. That afternoon Camille visited again. This time she brought artwork. A sketchbook. Nothing more. Nothing dramatic. Yet the moment Henri saw it, relief flashed across his face. The old man practically celebrated. Camille laughed. Embarrassed. "It's only a sketch." Henri pointed toward the book. "Show me."

Claude stood up from his armchair and replied: “Follow me” Claude took Carl to the old library connected to the study. The library looked aged and dark, as if it belonged to a fairytale castle: “The majority of books are written in Latin. I will teach you the language so you can read them” said Claude. “Did you see that red velvet book? Put your hand on it but don’t move it” Carl obeyed the order. Claude put his hand on another book: A big golden one. Then he said: “In three, pull it gently but firmly. One, two, three. And Voila!”

When she tried to retrieve it, she found a hole. Pushing the drawer aside, she peered into the hole with her phone's flashlight and extracted an old book with yellowing pages, covered in dust. Flipping the book open, Geneva's interest was sparked when she saw ugly letters of an equally anguishing handwriting that spelt the name, Ross Camille. Many of the pages were filled with drawings and dawdlings of nonsense. Everything was ugly but made no sense to humans. Finally, she saw another page filled with actual letters.

The man had just flat out admitted he had been staring at her like some creepy stalker and yet his touch seemed capable of settling the storm of anxiety in her while starting another storm in her that was much more hot and salacious. Perhaps I am crazy. She thought. That has to be it, someone’s touch shouldn’t be driving me this wild. “Why did you decide to leave early?” Jag broke the silence, his voice much more gentle now but still deliciously rich and sent chills down Camille’s spine. Camille shrugged, her cheeks hot as she fought between another flare of arousal and the embarrassment of why she was now walking home so early. “I’m not a fan of big crowds.” Jag nodded. “Understandable. I d

Emily’s POV Claire was just settling into the couch, a hand resting protectively over her small but growing bump, her face alight with a hopeful grin as she recounted the latest gossip on Camille's impending trial. "See? Karma," Claire said, grinning as she sipped her decaf coffee. "Camille finally overplayed her hand, and now she’s right where she deserves to be." I forced a small smile, trying to absorb Claire's positivity, but a nagging feeling lingered. “You think it’s over?” I murmured, the thought slipping out.