“It is not for me … it is the Maître who is in charge. And the vet says this is the only way.”

“And what does Oscar say?”

Alexandre looks at his boots. “He doesn’t know.”

“Alexandre! You haven’t told him?”

I look at him in disbelief. “Claude is Oscar’s horse! You have to tell him and he’ll stop the Master.”

“Claude doesn’t belong to Oscar.” Alexandre shakes his head. “The horses here are the property of the Célestins. The Garde républicaine can do whatever they want.”

“Oscar should know!” I persist. “He would want to be here. You know he would. He’s your friend, Alexandre, please do it for him? Give Claude one more day so that Oscar can be fetched from the hospital to be at his side at least if you’re going to do this.”

Alexandre looks hard at me, pursing his lips. “Oscar is recovering from brain surgery and cannot be seen. And meanwhile, the horse is suffering.”

“Give him one more day.” I stand firm.

Alexandre nods. “OK, Maisie. I’ll try. But I am not the decision maker.”

He turns to the vet. They speak French once more, this time in hushed tones, although I don’t know why they bother as I don’t understand any of it anyway. Then the vet shakes his head, argues back, moves over closer to his black bag, which is lying on the straw of the stable floor. And I think he is going to open it, but he doesn’t. He picks it up and gives me a nod and leaves.

“I’m going now to the hospital,” Alexandre tells me. “We’ve won Claude another twenty-four hours, and if they will allow me inside, I’ll tell Oscar what is going on. After that, we must act. Claude is in pain, and we have to think of the horse and do what is right.”

***

Do what is right. Alexandre’s words hang in the air after he leaves. Am I being selfish now? I don’t want Claude to die. But he is suffering. I can see it. I have painted his pain on my canvas and I know that his wounds are very bad. The vet thinks it’s hopeless. Alexandre too. So what right do I have to do this to him? Perhaps I –

“Maisie!”

Nicole is at the stable door. She isn’t alone. She has a man with her. He wears a beige trench coat and a shirt and tie. He is a funny-looking sort, inquisitive like a rat; bright eyes behind black-rimmed spectacles, short-cropped mouse-brown hair cut so close to his head it looks almost like he is bald. He carries a camera slung over his shoulder and a notepad in his hand.