“You have developed even greater technique,” he said grudgingly as we sat down for my half-term assessment. “But you still lack emotion. Where is your heart, Maisie? Why won’t you let it show? And the work, it is just not contemporary. Look at what everyone else in the class is producing around you! Modern art should be thought-provoking and say something about the world we live in today. And you bring me portrait after portrait of horses …” Augustin carried on telling me how awful my art was and then he delivered the final blow. “It is not good enough, I am afraid. I will not put this work forward for the auction intake. My professional reputation as an educator is at stake here. You need to bring me something else before the end of term or you will not earn a place in the selection of work to be sold at Lucie’s.”

All term I’d been trying to convince myself that I didn’t care what Augustin said. I was following in the footsteps of Rose Bonifait – and if she could stick to her guns, then I could too. But his words that day rocked me.

“But can he really do that?” Oscar asked when I arrived at the Célestins and told him what had just happened. “Surely you have had your fees paid and your work should be sold at the student auction?”

“Being included in the auction is reserved for the very best pupils,” I said. “Augustin is the decider. I can’t make him include me.”

Claude, who had been standing over in the corner of the stall as we spoke, came over to us now and stuck his head over the loose box door. I gave his velvet muzzle a stroke and saw the worry in his eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Claude,” I told him firmly. “You’re a good model. It’s me that Augustin doesn’t like.”

“What’s he talking about anyway?” Oscar continued. “This auction he refers to?”

“It’s a tradition at the school,” I said. “The pupils all produce a work and the top achievers have their art sold under the hammer at Lucie’s.”

“Lucie’s?” Oscar said. “Really?”

“You know it?”

“It’s a very famous auction house,” Oscar said. “So famous that even I have heard of it. Lucie’s is very grand. All the bourgeoisie go there to buy fancy things for enormous prices.”

“What’s a bourgeoisie?”

“Somebody who is rich and pretentious,” Oscar said. “I think in English you might call them social climbers? Trying to impress each other with their money and fancy things. You know the kind.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”