Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) by Juliette Benzoni Page B

askew. And she was evidently having trouble articulating clearly. Her eyes roamed vaguely about as if she found it hard to focus. None of this however prevented her from grabbing Catherine by the arm and giving her a good shake.
    ‘Lucky for you your parents were out the whole blessed day, you little fool! Or you wouldn’t be able to sit down now, I’ll warrant! Traipsing about like that all day, and with a boy too …’ She leant close enough for Catherine to get a whiff of her wine-laden breath.
    With an impatient gesture, Catherine shook herself free. Then she set her candle down on a stool and picked up a couple of logs she had dropped. ‘What about people who spend all day in the tavern drinking with the other gossips? Do you think that’s a better way to carry on? I may be lucky, Marion, but so are you! If I were you, I should go up to bed before Maman gets back.’
    Marion knew she was in the wrong. She was not a bad woman at heart, but she had had the misfortune to be born in the heart of the wine-producing Beaune country, and she was a little too fond of wine for her own good. She didn’t often get a chance to indulge, because Jacquette Legoix, to whom her mother had been wet-nurse, had kept a close watch over her since bringing her to Paris. Marion had been caught two or three times in an advanced state of intoxication, and Jacquette had finally threatened to pack her off back to Burgundy if it should ever happen again. Marion had wept, pleaded and vowed by the holy statue of Notre-Dame never to touch another drop. This relapse had no doubt been sparked off by the mood of hysteria prevailing in the town that day.
    Through a fog of drunkenness, Marion was dimly aware of all this and did not persist. Muttering unintelligibly, she stumbled over toward the stairs, which soon creaked under her weight. Then Catherine heard the attic door slam behind her, and she sighed with relief.
    Loyse had not yet returned, and Catherine hesitated for a moment as to what to do next. She was neither hungry nor sleepy. The one thing she wanted to do above all else was to join Michel down there in the dark once more. Listening to him talk while she had knelt beside him on the dusty floor had been the happiest moment of her whole life. And that gentle kiss he had given her still made her heart beat faster. Vaguely Catherine sensed that such moments were rarely come by, and she was sensible enough to realise that in a few hours Michel would be a free man again, back in his own world. The weary fugitive would become the young nobleman once more, and thereby put himself far out of reach of a humble artisan’s daughter. The charming companion of a moment would soon be no more than a distant stranger who would rapidly forget the little girl he had so easily dazzled. Michel was still hers. But he would soon be gone …
    Feeling suddenly desolate, Catherine ran to the street door and opened the upper half. The rain had stopped, leaving shining puddles. Water from the roof gushed down the gutters. The bridge, deserted a little earlier, was unexpectedly astir with activity. The chain had been removed and the two guards had disappeared. Groups of people, most of them lurching dangerously, were crossing the bridge, arm-in-arm, singing at the tops of their voices. Marion was clearly not the only person who had been celebrating a victory for the people. She heard sounds of singing and shouting from the direction of the Trois Maillets tavern at the other end of the bridge. The curfew bell of Notre-Dame had not yet sounded. It was unlikely that it would induce anyone to go home when it did. This was clearly a night for celebrating.
    Catherine wondered anxiously what Landry might be doing and if he would have remembered to bring a rope for Michel. Over in the Pigasse house, lights passed to and fro behind the panes of oiled paper. Then her eyes fell on a band of soldiers, swaying arm-in-arm across the whole width of the bridge and