7th June, morning; Breakfast guests

The arrival of Mathilde's mother nearly brought a grin to Jérémie's face. He held up the kitten he'd rescued from exploring too close to the fire.

"We have guests," he said. "Needing hospitality."

"Tsk, more mouths to feed, more like," Margot grumbled with feigned annoyance. Philippe who had been cuddled at her breast, gave a delighted squeal as she picked the creature up, pushing away from his mother to grab at the kitten with his chubby hands.

"Oh, mere de Dieu," she exclaimed, rocking back to keep the toddler's momentum from flinging him out of her arms as the kitten, it's ears flattened against its head, bared its teeth in an inaudible hiss. "Little monster," she chided affectionately, though it was unclear whether she was referring to the child or the cat. "Non, Philippe – gentle. I think we should return this little terror to Mere Jérémie," she continued, handing the kitten back, "Before the pair of you come to blows."

Mathilde looked up suddenly at the last remark, her face stricken.

"Calm yourself, child. I never said they couldn't stay."

This time, his grin would not be stifled. Jérémie took the kitten back and carefully placed it inside his open pack. "This one is perhaps too wilful," he commented lightly. "But the others may be more pleasant."

The unfortunately-named Beefsteak might, hopefully, be one of such a nature. He scooped this kitten up and gave it a reassuring scratch around the ears. "I think Philippe may be the best judge?"

"I think we had best try it on the ground this time," Margot suggested ruefully, sinking down and setting Philippe between her knees as Mathilde took the kitten from Jérémie.

"Gentle -- non, Philippe. Gentle. Like Mathilde. See?" The kitten seemed leery of the small, wild human, but it suffered him to approach. No sooner had the grubby hand brushed the creature's fur than Philippe let out a laughing little scream and pulled away to bury his face in his mother's dress.

"What is this?" Margot laughed, "Shy? My Philippe? Surely not."

Young Philippe's retreat made Jérémie chuckle. "They are both still intact, so it is a start. This one needs a better name than Beefsteak, though."

"Beefsteak?" Margot laughed, "And where did he ever come by such a name?"

"Foucheaux."

"He wanted to eat him," added Mathilde quietly.

This drew a throaty chuckle from her mother. "Is there anything that boy wouldn't put in a pot? Horse, cat... he'll be after little Remy-Jean next. Or my Philippe, I shouldn't wonder."

Let him try, Jérémie thought. Aloud, he said, "So long as they or our shoes don't disappear, I won't worry."

Even though he wouldn't necessarily put it past Foucheaux to try boiling shoe leather for a stew, if he was hungry enough.

Margot laughed again. "Well, then we shall have to watch both carefully," she replied, scooping up Philippe and getting to her feet.

"You're awfully quiet, love," she remarked, her attention turned momentarily to Paol. "Tch, and look at your uniform -- did sleep in a ditch last night?"

"Huh?" He looked up; he had a piece of rag and had been attempting to clean the mud out of the lock of his musket, though this had degenerated into a tug-of-war with one of the kittens. "Oh. Dunno," he said, recalling the question.

He twitched the fabric and was rewarded with a tiny growl as the grey kitten clamped a corner of the rag in it's mouth and tugged. Paol grinned at Jérémie, "He's a fierce little one."

"Oh!" Marie-Eve exclaimed as one of the kittens dashed past her feet, nearly causing her to trip. "What do we have here? Kittens! Where did they come from?" she asked, now noticing that there were several such creatures running or rolling about. "Are they yours, Paol? Or Rosy?"

Jérémie returned Kerjean's grin. That kitten would be a hunter, he guessed. "He knows what he wants." Which was, it seemed, to deny Kerjean the ability to clean his musket. Why was the weapon so muddy anyway?

Enquiries about that would have to wait though. "I found them. Last night." Jérémie stroked the ears of the black kitten, which had satisfied its hunger was now curled up on the top of his knee.

The kitten who had scurried across Madame Bellot's path came careening back, bowling headfirst into the grey one who seemed to puff up to twice its size in startled indignation before pouncing on the offender's head. Laughing softly, Paol caught hold of troublemaker, prising him away from the grey kitten and holding him up to Marie-Eve.

She took the little creature, who squeaked out a mew as she held him to her face. "Well hello! Aren't they sweet! Don't they have a mother? Or maybe they're old enough not to need a mother now."

Paol grinned. "They've got Rosy. And Mathilde."

The black kitten had decided it was a suitable time to wash Jérémie's fingers, a treatment he was happy to submit to. His face, however, had taken a pinkish hue at the suggestion he was like a mother to the litter of kittens - no matter there was a grain or two of truth to it.

Marie-Eve handed the kitten back to Kerjean. "Well, I expect they'll do very well with such good mothers. Mathilde gets enough practice mothering Philippe, and my Rémy-Jean. I better go and find him, poor thing."

Taking the kitten from Marie-Eve, he settled it back on the ground where it resumed its wrestling match as if nothing had happened. He glanced sidelong at Mathilde; she was beaming -- albeit shyly -- from the cantinierre's praise. It hadn't been so many minutes ago that she had been sobbing into his coat and he gave Marie-Eve a grateful smile.

"I can get him, if you'd like?" Mathilde volunteered.

"No, that's all right, my honey." She caressed Mathilde's head. "He'll be hungry, like these kittens, and he's only got one mother. But at least I don't have a whole litter of Rémy-Jeans. Ooof!" No wonder mother cats abandoned their children as soon as possible. She turned and made her way to the wagon where she had left him.

There was the patter of bare feet and then something small and -- at first impression, composed entirely of knees and elbows -- collided with Paol's back.

"Gilles!" Mathilde, all outraged maternal concern, sprang up and pulled her brother off him. "Why can't you behave?" she hissed.

"Why can't you -- What are those?"

"Kittens," said Jérémie, holding up the black-and-white kitten. "But you may only hold him if you are gentle - no running about with him!"

Gilles reached out eagerly, seizing the kitten not ungently, but his abrupt, awkward handling caused it to mew and squirm so that he almost dropped it.

"Gilles!"

"Peace, love," Margot soothed Mathilde, "They're not made of glass." By now Gilles was holding the kitten against his chest. Or trying to. The small creature clearly had other ideas and, hooking in its claws, began to march up the boy's shirt, much to Gilles' delight.

Peeling the kitten off before it could clamber over his shoulder, he crouched down and, with what he seemed to believe was a fierce, catlike cry, pounced it upon one of the other kittens.

Obviously Gilles was going to get along better with the kittens than his brother, but truthfully, this was no great surprise. Even though Gilles' idea of 'play' might make him a little unpopular with the kittens.

"If both of them survive to evening, I think they'll be life-long friends," Jérémie observed mildly.

Paol raised his head, a weary grin spreading across his face. "My money's on the little one, I think," he said as the kitten, its tiny paws clamped around Gilles' wrist, began to rabbit kick the boy's hand with all its might.

"Mine too." Jérémie reached in quickly to distract the kitten, not sure how well Gilles would take to having his hand used as an impromptu scratching post. "Silly creature!"