# Chapter 14: Welcome to Paradise, Fair Maidens
Hello everyone, it’s me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 14 of "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook". This is the chapter where young Louise—our Petite—steps out of the convent-shadowed world she has known and into the dazzling, dangerous, perfume-soaked labyrinth of the royal Court. And trust me, it is every bit as beautiful and unsettling as a dream you are not sure you want to wake from.
The chapter opens inside a coach rolling away from Paris. Petite is not alone. Across from her sits the striking, witty Athénaïs, a young woman who serves the Queen and who carries herself with the easy confidence of someone born to the highest circles. When Petite shyly asks whether Athénaïs is with Madame, Athénaïs corrects her: she has been in the Queen’s household for almost six months. Then Petite, flushing like a schoolgirl, asks if that means Athénaïs often sees *him*—the King. Athénaïs calls him “our enchanter,” and the word hangs in the air like a secret. She also lets slip that Petite will likely see more of the King than she will, because His Majesty is more often in Madame Henriette’s chambers than in those of his own wife. Petite does not know what to make of that. She assumes it cannot mean what it seems to mean.
The coach gathers two more young women, newcomers like Petite, and then heads south out of the city. Petite watches the road with hungry eyes: pilgrims on foot, pack-mules, a barefoot man leading a donkey, an old woman in a horse litter. Once she sees four covered wagons and looks for the Romany troupe of her childhood. It is not them, of course, but the ache of memory is there.
Then the road enters deep green shade. The forest around Fontainebleau is beautiful, but it is also a known haven for bandits. The driver calls for swords. Athénaïs lightheartedly hopes for excitement, though she clasps her cross. One of the girls begins a rosary, but stops at the first decade because of a terrible stink. Hanging from the limbs of an oak are the bodies of three men. Athénaïs says, almost coolly, “Finally. The King has been after those rogues for months.” Petite closes her eyes until they are safely past.
At last the coach enters a silent village and rolls through an ivy-covered arcade into the outer courtyard of an ancient hunting château. The vast quadrangle, the high-roofed pavilions, the long facades, the weeds pushing up through cobblestones—it all gives Petite an impression of melancholy and wanton neglect. This is a palace with ghosts: an evil Médicis queen, Diane de Poitiers, Mary, Queen of Scots, and even the murdered footman of Queen Christina of Sweden. The château’s history is long, tragic, and deeply romantic. From somewhere comes a violin and a woman singing an aria. “Welcome to Paradise, fair maidens,” Athénaïs says as the coach stops. “And may maidens you remain.”
Those words are a warning wrapped in silk.
A horse caparisoned in blue and gold comes cantering through the gates. The rider, a small man on a black courser, waves a feathered hat and vaults off with theatrical flair. Athénaïs calls him Lauzun and tells him to stop showing off, though her smile says something else entirely. Petite thinks he rides well “for a boy,” and Athénaïs assures her he is not a boy.
Then the Duchesse de Navailles appears at the top of the staircase—masked, gray-haired, a nose cloth in hand. She is the superintendent of the novices, the woman Athénaïs privately calls “Madame Jailer.” Athénaïs kisses Petite’s cheek and promises to see her tonight. Petite is both proud and pleased to have made such an acquaintance.
The Duchesse de Navailles looks over the new girls and wonders how long they will last. Her task is to protect the chastity of thirty-two young women: eleven serving the Queen Mother, twelve serving the Queen, and nine serving Henriette, the King’s brother’s new wife. It is not easy. The girls are fresh from home or convent, and the courtiers are handsome, charming, and intoxicating. Worse, Madame Henriette is only sixteen herself—a madcap with flaming hair and an unpredictable imagination. Her husband is jealous, not because his flirtatious wife smiles on lusty young men, but because those men prefer his wife to him. And the King? He is extraordinarily virile and restless. Not even a year married, and already he seems weary of his devout Spanish wife. The Duchesse de Navailles cannot entirely blame him. The Queen is newly with child, required to abstain from the royal biweekly coupling, and she will not learn French, eats too much garlic, spends all her time at devotions, and is, the Duchesse admits, somewhat dim. Still, the Duchesse prays the King will soon crown some seductive beauty with his favor—so long as that beauty is not one of her girls, and certainly not his brother’s wife.
The rules are laid down in the common room, where flies hover and the air smells of mutton and onion. The girls will rise at daybreak, pray, wear fresh shifts, keep their rooms tidy, scatter alder leaves for fleas, and attend Mass every morning at ten with the King. An open window at night is a full transgression. Three transgressions mean expulsion. The brunette blurts out “Cock-a-hoop!” and the Duchesse sighs, already planning her replacement.
Petite is shown to an east-facing attic room where Clorine is checking the lock and key. The ceiling is low, the room is close to a necessary and therefore smelly, and there is a spiderweb in one corner. But from the little window Petite can see a moat edged with dirty suds, overgrown gardens, a mossy grotto, and stable boys in the shade. She asks about Athénaïs and learns that she is a Mortemart—from Poitou, old nobility, important at Court for generations. “That’s as highborn as you get,” Clorine says. “Higher even than the King, some say.” Petite is astonished. No wonder Athénaïs is so pretty.
At six o’clock, Petite and the other new maids wait in the common room. The Duchesse de Navailles arrives with footmen and pages, one carrying her train, another fanning her with ostrich plumes. She sends the plump girl to the Queen and the brunette to the Queen Mother. Then she takes Petite to Madame Henriette herself. She criticizes Petite’s gown, adjusts her curls, and warns her that Madame Henriette insists her attendants be “in the fashion.” Petite’s job will be to please her, but also to exert a calming influence. One reason the Queen Mother approved Petite’s appointment is her reputation for virtue. Petite is surprised she has any reputation at all. The Duchesse smiles, not kindly: “Never forget, child, that at Court, everything you do and everything you say is observed and recorded.”
Then Petite is led through dark passages, courtyards, and up a wide stairway into an elegant antechamber. The doors open onto a room of Oriental opulence, peeling surfaces, dark pagan art—Venus reclining nude, the rape of Europa—and the sweet rosemary scent of Hungary water. Servants in red livery stand like sentinels. In the center, with her back turned, is the Princess. Her red hair is pulled into a bun and tied with pale green ribbons. She calls up to a quartet of musicians, asking for a pavane by Aisne, then dances a graceful glissade, holding a spaniel tucked in one arm like a baby. When she finally notices her visitors, she exclaims in surprise.
The Duchesse presents Petite with all her family names: Mademoiselle Louise-Françoise La Baume Le Blanc de la Vallière. Petite looks down, understanding that the long list is meant to compensate for a pedigree that is not quite grand enough. The Princess asks about La Vallière—is it a Duchy? A Marquisate? Not yet. One of Petite’s ancestors rode beside Joan of Arc. One of Henriette’s ancestors condemned her to death. Henriette laughs, toying with a curl. Princess Marguerite d’Orléans recommended Petite. Henriette asks if she dances. Petite confesses she loves to dance. She is asked to show them. Despite her short leg, she concentrates and performs a gigue—four pas de bourrée, finishing with a contretemps de gavotte. The other maids, Yeyette and Claude-Marie, nod with begrudging assent. Henriette is pleased. She needs girls who can dance for the Court entertainments she is creating this summer.
Then pages fling open the doors, and Monsieur Philippe enters—the King’s brother. Petite remembers him from Blois: short, even in high red heels, now made even shorter beside his towering wife. He wears a yellow justacorps, gold facings, ribbons, a periwig, a three-cornered red hat with white plumes. He is not comely, but he makes up for it in dress. He asks about the mouche on Henriette’s chin, and she says it is the fashion in London. He turns to Petite, and the Duchesse introduces her again. Under her skirts, Petite’s bent knees tremble. Henriette asks if she is not to have four maids of honor. The Duchesse says another will arrive in a week or so. “Mademoiselle de Montalais,” she reads. Nicole! Petite can hardly keep from exclaiming.
The royal couple’s entourage moves out into the evening. There is a torchlit colonnade, a dark expanse of water, gondolas, a gilded barge, perfume braziers, and musicians playing from somewhere distant. The music is magical, filling the air with mystic sweetness. Petite hears someone say the Comédie-Française is performing again, and the Queen will not be pleased. Then she sees Athénaïs, who greets her warmly and calls her “sister.” With Athénaïs is the little man from the horse—Lauzun—the King’s fool, and, as Athénaïs says, “my folly.” He stares at Athénaïs’s bosom, brays like a donkey, and makes Petite both amused and uneasy.
Trumpets blare. The King, Queen, and Queen Mother come down the stairs. Everyone falls into reverence after reverence, like one great exotic flower blowing in a gentle breeze. Petite watches the King approach, breathless. He is even more comely than she remembered. He walks like a king, but something in his expression—a shy glance to one side—hints at the rustic she once met in a meadow: a kind man who had a way with horses. The Queen and Queen Mother are dressed in dour black silk. The Queen meekly follows her formidable aunt, eyes cast down. Athénaïs whispers, “We frighten her. Poor thing.” Petite learns the Queen is with child. Then she gasps as a tiny face peeks out from under the Queen’s train. It is José, the Queen’s favorite dwarf, her Holy Fool. Athénaïs warns Petite to watch out for the blond one, who bites.
At the water’s edge, the King removes his plumed hat and bows to his brother’s wife. “Madame,” he says, “it’s my wish that this evening’s entertainment will be pleasing to you.” Henriette answers with a graceful reverence: “Your Majesty, all that you do enchants us.” Athénaïs catches Petite’s eye and mouths behind her fan: *What did I tell you?* The implication curls through the scene like perfume—dangerous, exciting, and impossible to ignore.
The chapter closes with Petite’s first morning at Court. She rises before the sun, says her first morning prayer, eats her first breakfast—a roll, dried venison, a bowl of cow’s milk—and suffers her first nervous stomach as she rushes to be at Madame’s before eight. In the antechamber, attendants wait. Monsieur Philippe has already left for the King’s levee. Men turn to stare at Petite as if appraising her. The walls and ceiling are adorned with erotic images. A garçon and officer bring wood; valets open and close doors; a camp-bed and night lamp are carried out. Yeyette appears, frilly bonnet high on her wig, and commands, “Summon Madame’s breakfast.” That is the signal that Madame Henriette is awake. Petite follows the others into the grand chamber, where the massive four-poster bed is hung with richly wrought curtains. The Princess sits up in her frilly night cap. A nurse bends to kiss her. “Good morning, my child.”
And just like that, Petite’s new life has begun.
Reader’s Impressions & Star Rating: I loved how this chapter made the Court feel like both a fairy tale and a trap. The beauty is real—the torchlight, the music on the water, the King’s presence—but so is the rot: hanged thieves, crumbling stones, locked shutters, and the ever-present surveillance. Athénaïs is magnetic and slightly terrifying, Lauzun is grotesquely funny, Henriette is a flame-haired whirlwind, and the King is glimpsed as both myth and man. Petite’s innocence is touching, but so is her quiet courage. She limps, she trembles, she dances anyway. The final line from the nurse feels almost like a mother’s blessing over a girl who is about to be tested by every desire and danger at Court.
⭐⭐⭐⭐½ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
Next Chapter Prediction: Petite will begin her duties with Madame Henriette and quickly discover that serving a sixteen-year-old princess who loves dancing, riding, and attention is far more complicated than bowing correctly. Nicole de Montalais will arrive, giving Petite an ally and perhaps a co-conspirator. The King’s lingering glances toward Henriette—and Athénaïs’s knowing mouth—suggest that the royal circle is already spinning toward scandal. I predict Petite will be drawn into the King’s orbit through riding, music, or a private moment, while the Duchesse de Navailles watches for any transgression. The Queen’s pregnancy will keep the Court tense, and Henriette may begin using Petite as a shield or a messenger. Most of all, I think Louise’s heart is about to be tested by the one man she should never love.
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