# Chapter 16: The Ruse of the Sun King
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? I'm so happy to welcome you back to our journey through "Mistress Of The Sun free digital audiobook." Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 16 — and oh, what a chapter this is. This is the chapter where our heroine Louise, known to all as Petite, learns the bitter truth about royal games, tastes the sting of humiliation, and then does something utterly astonishing: she gallops straight into the King's heart. So settle in, pour yourself something warm, and let's dive into this remarkable turning point.
The chapter opens in the hazy aftermath of a grand day at Fontainebleau — an outdoor excursion, a feast, a theatrical performance, and plenty of wine. A tipsy Nicole is being guided back to their shared rooms by Petite, carrying a taper through the dark corridors. The moon is nothing but a sliver, and candlelight flickers here and there in the château windows. Nicole, loose-tongued and delighted, declares this place a "gossip's paradise," and immediately begins spinning tales: that the King covets his own brother's wife, that the Queen is with child and therefore unavailable to him, that Monsieur Philippe stormed off into the woods in a jealous fury. She names the Marquise de Plessis-Bellièvre — the one with bad breath — as Fouquet's spy. She hints that even the funny little Monsieur Lauzun is in Fouquet's pay, and that Fouquet himself is angling to wear the crown.
Petite, meanwhile, keeps her composure. She cautions Nicole that not everything one hears is true, and she insists she doesn't believe the rumors about the King and Henriette. But here's the delicious tension the author plants so carefully: Petite sounds more certain of her convictions than she actually is. Everything she'd been taught about right and wrong seems to melt and reform at Court. And when Nicole turns the tables and tries to guess who Petite herself is sweet on, Petite answers evenly — "No one." But we readers know better, don't we? It isn't going to be easy hiding her heart's passion from her friend.
From there, the chapter gives us a vivid portrait of daily courtly life. Each evening at Benediction, Nicole holds the candle while Petite reads the Psalms aloud. Afterward, Henriette and Philippe walk out into the fragrant gardens, trailed at a distance by their whispering attendants. And what whispers they are! Yeyette confides that Henriette and Philippe had "congress" the night before — evidence found in the sheets. Claude-Marie adds, scandalously, that Philippe touches a rosary to his privates before the act, because his valet told her so himself. Then everyone talks at once: the Queen complains that the King is always at Henriette's; the Queen Mother is suspicious and always watching; she even warned Madame that night excursions will harm her health. Petite walks on, only half listening, her mind on her letters — one from Jean in Amboise complaining of boredom, one from her mother in Paris offering advice on covering blemishes, and a parcel from her aunt Angélique in Tours with handmade laces and prayers for her safety. Notice how the author grounds Petite in humility and homesickness even amid all the splendor.
Then comes a delicious bit of foreshadowing. Nicole teases that the Queen Mother is sixty — "impossibly old" — and asks Petite to agree. Petite smiles, but privately thinks the Queen Mother wise to be watchful. And she should be, because trouble is on its way.
The following Monday, Petite is in the château library choosing books — *Cléopâtre* by La Calprenède to read to the Princess, and Cicero's *On the Good Life* for herself, because she wants to improve her Latin and is drawn to his essays on moral duty. Nicole bursts in, flushed and out of breath from running all the way from the carp pond. Henriette's mother — the Queen of England — has arrived. "I think the Princess is in for a scolding," Nicole sings.
And indeed, that night the gathering at Henriette's is gay but carefully, deliberately so. Henriette defers to her mother, is unusually gracious to the Queen Mother and the Queen, gives the King only the respect he is due and not a glance more, and sits beside her husband laughing at his jokes. So she *was* scolded. Petite reflects on Cicero's wisdom: if one adopts moral goodness as a guide, understanding practical duties follows automatically.
Then the moment arrives that changes everything. A man's voice interrupts her thoughts — "Mademoiselle?" — and it is the King himself. He asks for the pleasure of hearing her sing. Petite, stunned, stammers her assent. Henriette, from across the room, praises her as having the loveliest voice of all her maids. Petite goes to the harpsichord, where Claude-Marie sits with a miffed expression. She suggests "Enfin la Beauté," a lovely air de cour, and when Claude-Marie screws up her face in confusion, Petite says she can sing it without accompaniment. Then she turns to face the room — and what a room it is. The King directly in front of her, flanked by the Queen Mother, the Queen, and the Queen of England. Behind them, Henriette and Philippe, princes of the blood, ministers of state, dukes and duchesses. And along the walls, every lesser noble and attendant. She looks up at the ceiling, waits for a wave of dizziness to pass, remembers her aunt's words that song is God's language, takes a deep breath — and sings.
That night, Petite lies awake replaying it all. The King had listened intently, applauded vigorously. At two in the morning she finally sleeps, and dreams blissfully that the King is not married, not even a king, and that he loves her singing. She wakes with her sheets in a knot and her heart aching, and slips to her knees to pray for a guide to moral goodness. Beautiful, painful, human.
The next morning Henriette greets her warmly — "Our angelic singer" — and says, "You please the King, Mademoiselle Louise, and that pleases me," with a simpering smile. Claude-Marie and Yeyette glare. Nicole throws her a look of consternation. And Petite wonders: what does it all mean? Clearly she has done something wrong — but what?
In the days that follow, the confusion deepens. The King joins her table for cards instead of Henriette's. He watches her dance. He commands Yeyette and Claude-Marie to be silent while she reads aloud from *Don Quixote*. He seems to be favoring her — but why? Petite tells herself it means nothing, even as her heart quickens. She knows he cannot be serious. Coquetting is innocent diversion at Court, but why would the King coquette *her*? And why not Henriette?
Meanwhile, the Duchesse de Navailles drills the maids on etiquette: no cutting nails in company, no laughing loudly (especially at others' mistakes), no yawning (it's how the Devil gets in), no reading while others talk nor talking while others read, no reading aloud without being asked — and only by the person of the highest station. Every move, every glance and breath, is determined by station. When the Duchess pointedly reminds them there is to be no talking while someone is reading, singing, or playing an instrument, Nicole nudges Petite — the night before, the King had commanded Yeyette to be silent while Petite sang. After the Duchess leaves, Claude-Marie and Yeyette mock Petite behind her back, imitating her limp, making bug-eyes. Nicole spits neatly at Yeyette's cheek, and when Petite protests, Nicole shrugs it off: "The wenches. Simpering giglets. They're just jealous because the King shows you favor."
At the pond, Petite skips stones and asks the question burning in her heart: "Why me?" Nicole suggests maybe he likes her, but with doubt in her voice. Petite insists that's not possible. She is bewildered that Henriette seems to *encourage* the King's attentions to her, and dismayed by the jealousy of the other maids. She can't help but feel honored — but what about the Queen? He is married and shouldn't be acting this way, to Henriette or to her.
"Maybe it's an act," Nicole says. "Maybe he's trying to make Henriette jealous. That happens in books." But Petite points out the flaw: Madame doesn't seem jealous in the least. "Something's not right," Nicole admits. And Petite, desperate now, asks her friend to find out. "You mean spy?" Nicole grins.
The next morning, Nicole delivers the blow. She bribed a pastry-cook — Petite owes her six sous — and the truth is exactly as she suspected: the King is *pretending* to court Petite. It's like acting a part. The purpose? To fool his mother. If the Queen Mother believes the King is in love with one of Henriette's maids — Petite, as it happens — then he can visit Henriette without suspicion. It was even Henriette's idea. That's why she hasn't been jealous.
Petite is angry and heart-broken both. She has an urge to flee to the open air, to be with horses — creatures she can trust. That the King wasn't interested in her doesn't surprise her. It hurts, yes — a shameful admission — but her disillusion cuts deeper. The King, a married man, courting his sister-in-law. Worse, he and Henriette contriving to *use* her as a screen to fool his mother. That is not noble. That is not even gentlemanly. It is a base thing for any man to do — the more so for a king. She promises Nicole the money, rushes from the room, and bursts into irate tears.
And then — oh, this is where the chapter truly soars — she goes to the royal stables at Fontainebleau. A man in a frayed straw hat stares as she stomps by. Mud, litter, a cart piled with dung, horses tied to iron rings, an ass braying. Petite enters the dark stable and her eyes adjust. Horses of all sizes and colors peer over the gates. The stables at Blois seem small by comparison. She listens to their rhythmic munching, the rustling straw, inhales their familiar scent. *Home.* There's even a switch on the wall to keep witches from riding the horses at night.
She steps through an arch into a circular arena, where a Moor — Azeem, she learns — is working a dappled gray stallion. The horse canters the perimeter, then stops at the Moor's gesture, ambling up submissively. Azeem slips a halter over its ears. Petite notices a small gold cross around his neck, and something familiar stirs: a Moor, Romas, Diablo. She asks hesitantly if he is a gentler, if he ever traveled with the Romas. He is Azeem. And when she mentions her father buying a white stallion years ago north of Tours, his eyes widen. He holds out his hand at a child's height. Petite nods. "That horse was crazed," he says, touching the cross. Petite starts to mention bone magic but dares not, saying only that he settled over time. Azeem says he thought he saw the horse once, but was mistaken. Petite knows — Diablo would be about fifteen now, and it's unlikely he's still alive. "He ran off," she says carefully. The reunion is quiet, tender, and full of ghosts.
The master of the hunt interrupts, ordering thirty-two mounts for the afternoon, seven for ladies. When Petite admits she would love to ride the gray, Azeem protests that he's not a suitable mount for a lady. "I rode Diablo," she says. "*You* rode Diablo?" He regards her with astonishment. "He was my horse." It seems a fable to her now.
Then comes the hunt — rigorous, mud-splattered, chasing a hart through bogs and thickets. After the last kill, the King raises his left hand, signaling a race, and thunders off with his men whooping after him, hats flying. Petite holds the gray in check, riding sidesaddle, knowing it isn't befitting for women to race men — especially the King. But anger burns in her again, thinking of his base deception. A man thunders past, telling her to get out of the way, dirt clots flying. And something snaps. The gray prances. She longs for the wind in her face, the heady surge of power — but most of all, she wants to prove she is not to be toyed with. She loosens the reins, leans into her horse's neck, and cries, "Go!"
The gray surges across the meadow, jumping wide over a creek. Three men by a stone wall yell warning — a rider is down — but she picks her spot and flies over. She can see the men galloping in a clump ahead, three stragglers behind. She kicks the stallion into a hard gallop, passing rider after rider, giving herself up to the joyous pounding of hoofbeats, the muscular strength of a racing horse. *Mort Dieu*, she is flying! She lets out an unladylike whoop. *Sing ye!* The King on his black hunter is lengths ahead — and she passes him in a blur, galloping into the lead, into unknown territory. She sits back, slowing to a hand-canter. She is in the lead, but she doesn't know the way. She glances back. The King and his men have slowed and are turning into the woods. Lauzun stares at her, frowning, and shakes his head. Petite waits until the men pass, then follows, the glory of her triumph turned sour.
Back at the château, the courtiers in Henriette's chamber fall silent when Petite enters. A tall man in the King's livery summons her loudly — the King has summoned Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Nicole gives her an *uh-oh* look. Following the servant out, Petite is grasped rudely by the elbow at the stair landing: "You have humiliated the King: men have been beheaded for less." She shakes free and asks what's expected. "An apology — to begin with," he says with a mocking smile.
The antechamber to the King's cabinet is small, dark, and smells strongly of dogs. Two hounds stretch and sniff her mules. The attendant's parting advice: "If you have any sense — which you clearly do not — you will grovel." Petite stands alone, watched by the hounds. She thinks: so. She will be banished. Her mother will be less than sympathetic. She doesn't relish living with her stepfather and his endless talk of his hippo-tusk teeth.
Then the door opens, and she is comforted to see kindly Gautier, her former dance master, who announces that the King will see her. Inside, the King sits by the chimney in the circle of firelight, a milk-colored dog curled at his feet, dressed in dark silks and velvets, an ornamental sword against his chair. Petite makes her reverence and apologizes as instructed, eyes down. The King tells her to come forward. She takes five hesitant steps, reassured by two Swiss guards in the shadows — they are not alone.
"I remember you," the King says. Does he? Could he recall meeting her in the meadow at Chambord two years before? She's grown; her hair is braided and coiled now, covered with a cap. He asks if she's the girl who danced the bourée. She confirms it, both disappointed and relieved. She notices a blemish on his chin, like any young man of two-and-twenty. He praises her riding and asks where she learned. "From my father, Your Majesty. He liked a good race." His tone isn't angry — there's admiration in it. He asks if her father taught her to dance. No — she was taught at Blois under Monsieur le Duc de Gautier. "*My* Gautier?" he asks, surprised. The hound Mitte sniffs Petite's hand, and Petite strokes her silky head.
The King says he can hardly see her in the shadows and holds out his hand — but Petite steps back. "Do I frighten you? Have I not shown you favor?" There's a long silence. "You must answer me." Petite says, "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I would have to speak truthfully. And I am reluctant to do so." He shifts, his eyes on the fire. "Truth might be amusing. For a change," he adds with an ironic smile, one eyebrow raised.
Petite senses something sad in him. Summoning her courage — reminding herself she is the descendant of a man who rode beside Jeanne d'Arc — she says she has reason to believe he has shown her favor with *false intentions*. The King sits back. "And why, pray, would I do that?" She steps into the circle of light, not wanting the guards to hear, and says it: to deceive the Queen Mother. Because it is his brother's wife he courts, and that makes the Queen Mother unhappy. It's better for her to think he courts Petite. That way he can call on Madame Henriette as often as he likes without his mother suspecting. Her heart pounds. She waits to be banished — or worse.
"You are as fearless in speaking your mind as you are on the back of a horse," the King says finally. "And frankly, I commend you." She looks up. She is not to be banished. "And I regret to say that you are not mistaken," he continues. He loves his brother's wife — but as a dear friend and sister. His mother is of an age when men and women did not have friendships, and she would not understand. It is true that he and Henriette contrived this ruse to enjoy each other's company unfettered. It was something of a prank, but in retrospect, not an honorable thing to do. He asks her to accept his apology.
Petite stares at her worn slippers. She has had the impudence to accuse the King. It seems unnatural, unholy. Then she speaks of her family. "Your Majesty, I am a Vallière. My family is humble but loyal. Our family motto is *Ad principem ut ad ignem amor indissolubilis*." The King grimaces: his Latin is not as good as it should be. She translates: "For the King, love like an altar fire. Eternal." She meets his eyes. He sits rapt, stroking his mustache, and asks if she will ride with them tomorrow. "If you wish," she stutters. "You see," says the King, reaching for the bell rope, "I enjoy a good race too."
And so the chapter closes with Petite riding with the King and a small party of twenty-three the next afternoon. They amble, trot, and canter down wide allées, across blooming meadows, jumping streams, fences, and bogs. The dogs scent a hart, the varlets set off, the King and his men thrash through the woods, and the splendid buck is finally put to bay. The King gives it a clean coup de grâce. Petite realizes: *I'm the only woman present.* The stag drew them into a thicketed corner, and the ladies of the palace chose not to follow for fear of scratches and mud. At the unmaking, the veneur who flayed the hart gets the shoulder, the head varlet the hide, and Mitte, the King's best hound, is ceremoniously awarded the stag's head. The King watches his dogs with pleasure. "Award Mademoiselle de la Vallière a foot," he tells the veneur, who hacks off a hoof and hands it up to Petite. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she says, hanging the bloody trophy from her waist.
In the weeks that follow, Petite rides with the King and his men almost every afternoon. She astonishes them — riding in close behind the hounds, steady, fearless, strong, as good with a spear as any man. In a race, sometimes Petite pulls into the lead, sometimes the King. The courtiers cannot keep up. She returns from the hunts smelling of horses, boots muddy, curls in disorder. Yeyette and Claude-Marie regard her uneasily. *What sort of girl was she?*
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## Reader's Impressions & Star Rating
What a magnificent chapter. This is the hinge on which the entire novel turns, and the author executes it with absolute mastery. It begins with gossip and wine and teasing, slides into a cruel revelation — that Petite has been used as a decoy, a screen, a pawn in a royal deception — and then transforms that humiliation into the most thrilling, defiant gallop I've read in ages. When Petite kicks that gray stallion into a full gallop and passes the King himself, I actually cheered out loud. And the confrontation scene in the King's cabinet? It is electric. A young, unmarried, humble maid looks the most powerful man in Europe in the eye and accuses him of dishonorable behavior — and he *apologizes*. That is extraordinary. And notice how carefully the author contrasts Petite's moral code with the court's shifting sands: she clings to Cicero, to her family motto, to the memory of Diablo. The stable scene with Azeem is a beautiful, quiet interlude that ties her past to her present and reminds us who she really is. The final image — Petite with a bloody stag's hoof hanging from her waist, mud on her boots, curls in disorder, while the other maids stare in confusion — is perfect. She has stopped being a girl who reads Psalms by candlelight. She has become something wild and free and true.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.9 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
The King has now seen Petite as she truly is — fearless on horseback, honest to the point of recklessness, and utterly unlike anyone else at Court. But this is precisely where danger begins. The Queen Mother is watchful and suspicious. The Queen is with child and increasingly unhappy about the King's attentions to Henriette. And now a new rumor will spread: that the King has taken a genuine interest in one of Madame's maids. In the next chapter, I predict the court's whispers will sharpen into something more dangerous. Yeyette and Claude-Marie, already jealous, may become outright hostile, perhaps even scheming. Henriette will have to decide whether Petite is still a useful screen or a genuine rival, and that decision could turn her from patron to enemy. And the King — having apologized to Petite and invited her to ride — may begin to seek her out for reasons that have nothing to do with Henriette. The mask of the ruse is cracking, and Petite's heart, which she has barely managed to guard, may soon be caught in a web of royal affection that neither she nor anyone else can control. Expect more horses, more secrets, and the first trembling hints of a love story that will shake the throne of France.
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