The short cut brings out my eyes, makes the most of my cheekbones. And it will be so practical! No more hair in my eyes when I am trying to paint. I can focus on the work. Anyway, curls never got me anywhere. The boys at the school seldom even acknowledge that I am alive, and the only other places I ever go are the auction yards and the abattoir, and curls are no use to me there either.

Back to the abattoir. As I said, I was there this morning. I had skipped my lesson at school – I suddenly didn’t feel like facing the Directeur with my new hair. His endless, painful discussions about the failings of my gender were irritating me too much for me to hold my tongue, and going instead to a place where they slaughter animals felt like a pleasant change of pace.

I’m being horrible. Truly, it is never fun to go to the abattoir. This morning, though, dealing with what I saw in that slaughter chamber upset me even more than usual, and I had a feeling of being deeply heartbroken when I emerged. As I saddled Celine, I wondered whether the stench of the place clung to me in some way because the mare skipped and danced as I tacked her up, but she settled when I mounted, and we rode out across the gravel of the forecourt of the stables and down the avenues to the park.

The Jardin de Luxembourg is still my favourite place in the world. Winding bridle paths meander between trees and around the great lake, and there is a sense of wildness to the place so that you can scarcely believe you are in the city. One day I even spied deer bounding through the forest as I rode.

Before Mama got sick, we would ride there together, and she would point out things and make me practise my English. L’oiseau is bird. L’arbre is tree. Jardin is garden. I chanted these words to myself today as I rode the bridle paths with Celine and then cantered my mare through the trees, watching the dappled late-afternoon light of Paris growing rose-pink as the evening closed in on us. By the time I returned Celine to her stall that evening, I had made my mind up about two things.

The first was that, no matter what happened to me in my life, I would always love horses.

The second thing I decided was perhaps more important. Until now, I have been quiet. I have apologised for my gender and been happy to let men consider me to be the weaker sex, have allowed them to make decisions that are unfair and unequal. But the Directeur’s silly fuss about something as pointless as my style of dress has strengthened my ambition, has turned my will to steel.