Yesterday, I could hear Alexandre and the vet having an argument right outside Claude’s stall. They were speaking very angrily in rapid French. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but at the end I heard Alexandre say something to the vet and then the vet must have stormed off. When Alexandre entered the stall a moment later, I asked him what they’d been fighting about, but he shrugged it off. “We are both trying to do what is best for Claude,” he said cryptically. He knows more than he is telling me, I’m sure of it.

“Claude can’t die,” Françoise says, and her words shake me out of my thoughts once more.

“If he dies, it’s all my fault, you see? He saved my life. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell her firmly. I want to tell her that Claude knew what he was doing and if he had the choice he would do it again. I am certain of it. “I know,” I say. “He put his life on the line for all of those people inside the glass pyramid of the Louvre. Claude saved them because he’s a noble horse of the Garde républicaine. Claude knew that it was his duty to protect the innocent. He’s a hero,” I tell Françoise. “And he did what he had to do.”

Françoise nods, sniffles a little and then tries to bravely smile. “Can I see your painting?” she asks.

Until now the canvas has been hidden from her. I paint with my back to the rear wall of Claude’s stall. Standing at the doorway Françoise cannot see anything except the back of the canvas frame.

“It’s not ready,” I say. “I’m not finished.”

“Please?” she asks again. “Just a look?”

I hesitate. This painting is so private. Until now it has just been me and Claude, but I need to steel myself and allow the world in to see it too. The world – starting with Françoise.

I walk across and open the door to the stall and beckon her in and close it again behind her. Not that it needs to be shut, I suppose. Slumped on the straw, Claude is hardly likely to rise to his feet suddenly and bolt for freedom. He doesn’t move at all as Françoise walks past him to stand behind the canvas.

Françoise stares at the painting, transfixed. She says nothing. I think she must hate it.

“It still needs work,” I try to justify myself. And then I hear her make a strange, strangled cry. “Françoise? Are you OK?”

She bursts into tears! And before I can begin to comfort her she is out of the door saying, “I have to go!”