He smiled at me. “But you, Maisie, you already have a future career. You are at the Paris School. Fame and fortune as an artist are bound to follow.”

“Not if my work sucks as much as Augustin thinks it does,” I said.

“Does it matter what he thinks?” Oscar replied.

“Augustin has the final say about which paintings are chosen for the art school auction night at Lucie’s,” I said. “If I don’t get selected, that’s kind of like failing.”

“And he doesn’t like your work?”

I shook my head. “He thinks I’m old-fashioned and I lack emotional depth. Although his idea of ‘deep’ is stupid modern art that is all squiggles and blobs.”

“I would rather have a horse on my wall than a blob.” Oscar frowned.

“It was easier at home,” I said. “I could go to Hyde Park and set up my easel and paint the horses there.”

“You can do the same here,” Oscar said. “If you want. Come and paint Claude any time you like. He struggles with life here sometimes. He is happy when he’s out working on the streets, but he gets bored and misses human company when he’s confined to his stall. If you visited him he would love to model for you.”

As if to prove this, Claude had pricked his ears forward and struck a pose.

“See!” Oscar smiled. “He’s a natural! Come and paint him anytime.”

***

Did Oscar really expect me to take him up on the offer or was he just being kind? I filled up the wheelbarrow with dung while I waited for them to return. If I could make myself useful at the yard, perhaps it would feel less like he was doing me a favour.

Alexandre returned when my barrow was full and directed me where to dump it on the dung heap out the back of the yards. He showed me the pile of fresh sawdust too, and I took a barrowload of it back with me to the stall. I was spreading it on the floor when there was the chime of horseshoes on cobbles as the officers came back from their afternoon patrol. I came out into the corridor to see Oscar dismounting and leading Claude in through the courtyard.

Claude gave a nicker at the sight of me. I found it very heartwarming that he’d remembered me, and Oscar smiled and waved. “Maisie!”

He seemed genuinely pleased to see me.

“You’ve brought your easel, I hope?” he asked.

“Just my sketch book,” I said.

“Bien. Well, you’ll have to give us a few minutes. I need to wash Claude down before he goes into his stall.”

“I can help?” I offered.

“Do you remember what the halter looks like?” Oscar asked me.

“It’s the thing you stick on his head to tie him up, yeah?”