‘He’s as light as a feather,’ Bel whispered, as she looked down at his innocent young face, trusting her to take care of him, simply because he had no alternative.

Laurent watched her as she carried the child carefully, tenderly, into the atelier so as not to wake him. And as he went to speak with Bel’s driver, his own eyes brimmed momentarily with tears.

She was waiting for him on the chair where she sat every day as he sculpted her, the child still in her arms.

‘I’ll prepare a pallet for him in the kitchen,’ said Laurent, wondering what on earth Landowski would say when he arrived to find a filthy street child in his atelier at sunrise tomorrow. But nevertheless, he wished to help.

A few minutes later, Bel carried the child through to the kitchen and gently laid him down. ‘At least I should wash his face and perhaps try to clean his wound. Have you some cloth and antiseptic?’

‘Somewhere,’ Laurent said, and he began searching in the cupboards until he found the antiseptic. Disappearing from the room, he arrived back with a piece of white cotton netting, more commonly employed in the studio for plaster of Paris moulds, so Bel could use it to clean the child’s wound.

‘Have you a bandage?’ she asked, and when Laurent said there were none in the cupboards, he watched as she gently bound the wound with the netting to protect it. The boy flinched, but remained asleep.

‘Even thought the night is warm, he is shivering with fever. We need a blanket,’ she ordered and Laurent duly brought the one that he would have wrapped around his own shoulders that night.

‘I will sit here for a while, bathe him in cold water to bring down his fever and make sure he feels safe,’ she said, as Laurent stood above her in the tiny kitchen. Nodding, he left and went to prepare his own pallet in the atelier next door.

‘Sweet child,’ she whispered as she wiped a water-soaked rag across his forehead and stroked his hair. ‘When you wake up tomorrow, I won’t be here, but don’t be afraid. I promise when I return, I will make sure you are safe. But now I must leave you. Sleep well.’

As Bel began to rise, a hand suddenly reached out from beneath the blanket and grabbed at her skirt. The boy’s eyes were open wide as he stared at her.

And in perfect French, he said, ‘I will never forget what you have done for me tonight, mademoiselle.’ And then, with a sigh of contentment, the child rolled over and once again closed his eyes.

‘I must go,’ Bel said to Laurent as she emerged from the kitchen. ‘Where is the key to lock the prison door?’ she added, sarcasm in her voice.

‘Izabela, you know I only do it to protect the professor and his family. This is their house, and his great work of art,’ he reminded her as he indicated the half-formed sculpture of Christ.